Anathema
by ReaperRain
Summary: An Elder Scroll is stolen, his bodyguard and only confidant is dead, and Ocato is slowly buckling under the strain of running an Empire without an Emperor. But when Modryn Oreyn lands the position of Chancellor's guard, that all changes. Eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

Because Lucien gets too much attention (guilty as charged...) and the other characters need their own fanfiction too, I've written about two of the more neglected characters in the game. The pairing _is_ crack, but I think it actually works quite well, and I aim to convince you of the same :D.

For anyone unfamiliar with my other stuff – I'm a slash writer, and this is no different. It's _tasteful_ slash, but it's still male-male; if you truly can't stand that, this probably isn't the story for you. If you like or at least tolerate slash, please read on.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the seat-warmer of the Emperor, or the Mohawk man. Because Bethesda is sensible enough not to give their fangirls any property rights.

**Anathema, Chapter One

* * *

**

_**Palace Break-In?**_

_The Legion Centurion in command of the Palace Guard was charged with dereliction of duty. Although the Council has officially denied the stories of a palace break-in, the rumours persist. Muddled accounts of the events and principles range from a madman intent on spit-polishing the Emperor's shoes to a master thief stealing one of the legendary Elder Scrolls-_

_Thwack._ The latest copy of the Black Horse Courier hit the table so hard that everyone in the room flinched. And stood behind that table, with an expression that suggested he might take up genocide as a hobby, was a very, _very_ unhappy High Chancellor.

"_Who_," he hissed so dangerously that a few people shuffled back in fear, "Told them?"

Silence was his answer. A crowd of uneasy faces stared back at him: guards, messengers, maids, scholars. All people who had been present on that night, all people who knew what had actually taken place – the event he'd _tried_ to cover up so the Elder Council wouldn't look completely idiotic, but that plan was gone and ruined now, wasn't it.

"One of you must have done it," Ocato continued, glaring accusingly at each and every one of them, "And so help me, if that person doesn't own up, you're _all_ fired."

"Sir," a scribe spoke up, albeit apprehensively, "It may have just been speculation-"

"Speculation?" the Chancellor repeated with a sharpness that was not merely heard, but _felt_, "And what was the other _speculation_, hm? 'A madman intent on spit-polishing the Emperor's shoes'? _We_-" he snatched up the newspaper and brandished it at the poor scribe, who squeaked and cowered, "-Don't _have_ an Emperor anymore, you fool! This article tells everyone _precisely_ what happened, and I want to know _which of you is responsible for it!_"

A minute passed, and no-one came forward. Barely restraining the fluent, multi-lingual stream of curses on his tongue, Ocato instead tore the offending newspaper in two, then promptly combusted the remains with a particularly vicious fire spell. The Minister for Health and Safety coughed and raised a hand meekly., but Ocato shut him up with a glare, a shiver of magical ice putting out any potential fire hazard.

"Fine," he said briskly, wiping the remaining traces of ash and frost from his hands, "If no-one comes forward, I shall have to fire you all. This is your last chance," a pause, "Right! You're all fired. Get out of here, this area is employees only."

"B-but, High Chancellor-"

"Chancellor, please reconsider-"

"_Out_, before I attack you for trespassing!"

That got them moving soon enough. In the mad dash to escape an upset Altmer's wrath, Ocato spotted a messenger among the crowd clutching a large scroll, "You there! Get back here, that looks important."

"S-sir?" the messenger stammered, watching everyone else leave unharmed with a look akin to despair, "It's – it's the list of new candidates, sir. To replace Miss Beanique."

_Evangeline._ The name was a painful and guilt-laden reminder of the woman he'd yet to mourn for, because his schedule simply did not allow it. Whoever had broken into the palace to steal an Elder Scroll was not merely a thief, but a murderer as well, and Evangeline had been dispatched with an almost chilling efficiency. It made him all the more furious that the culprit had not been caught, or even _seen_ by a single person. The only marginal comfort he found was in the manner of her death – quick, clean, and painless.

And though he hated that use of the word _replace_, as though Evangeline was not a person but an object, the fact remained: he was sans-bodyguard. And that position had to be filled as quickly as possible, because as the most powerful man in Cyrodil – perhaps even Tamriel – there were quite of lot of people who would happily see him dead.

"Let me see," he took the scroll from the still-very-nervous messenger, unravelling it to reveal the names suggested by various sources. Most he recognised – high-ranking Legion soldiers, notable wizards, a few renowned fighters from the Arena and such. But at the bottom of the list was a name he'd never come across before: "Modryn Oreyn?"

"Champion and second-in-command of the Fighters Guild, sir. The Guildmaster himself recommended him."

Admittedly, he didn't have much contact with the Fighters Guild. The Mages Guild, despite being the arcane equivalent, was far more immersed in the world of politics and social standing, hence why a number of them were on the list. Besides which, the Legion was the more prim and proper choice for any combat needs. Even so, the name would not be on the list without good reason.

"Very well," Ocato said, re-rolling the parchment and handing it back, "Send out invitations to all the candidates for a personal interview in the palace, five days from now. Plenty of time for everyone to travel to the Imperial City." And plenty of time to clear his schedule as necessary. Gods knew how many people he would have to bribe into leaving him alone for a day...

It then occurred to him, mid-thought, that the messenger still hadn't moved: "Well, what are you waiting for? Those invitations won't send themselves."

"I – I can't, sir."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"Well you-" the boy paused to lick his lips anxiously, looking decidedly greenish-white, "You just fired me, sir."

Ocato arched one eyebrow; "Then you're re-hired, aren't you? Now hurry up and do your job before I sack you again."

"S-sir!" the messenger answered at once, saluting clumsily before running off with the scroll as though his life depended on it.

Ocato watched him go, savoured the isolated silence he was so rarely granted these days – and then, with a groan and an oncoming headache, realised he would need to substitute everyone he had just fired.

* * *

"High Chancellor! A moment, if you please?"

"A few questions, Chancellor?"

"Chancellor, if we could talk about-"

He ignored them all, striding briskly past as though they weren't there – the best way to deal with journalists, he'd found. Most were of the Black Horse Courier, plus a few lesser-known newspapers and gossip columns alike. He glanced over at the palace guards, but they were all preoccupied containing the rabble outside; a common occurrence since the end of the Oblivion crisis, and the Elder Council's announcement that there would be no new Emperor. At least he only had a few pesky reporters to deal with today.

"Can you confirm the stories of a break-in?"

"Were you confronted by the Gray Fox himself?"

"Is it true Evangeline Beanique was killed during the heist?"

Ocato stiffened. And, against his better judgement, turned to face a journalist that looked more eager than sympathetic. "Miss Beanique passed away of natural causes a few days ago," he replied, the lie coming so easily that, in his younger days, he would have been appalled. But the years of bureaucracy as Arch-Mage and later High Chancellor did wonders for numbing the conscience. "I can assure you, the timing with the break-in is purely coincidence."

If only it would shut them up – but there was always more questions, more insistent nosiness, more lies he would have to make up for the sake of reputation: "So you can confirm there _was_ a break-in? Has the thief been caught?"

"What was the nature of Miss Beanique's passing?" asked another, deciding that this was a more important subject than the theft of an Elder Scroll, "Illness, or old age? Wait, Chancellor-" he added in haste when Ocato disdainfully turned and began to walk away, "Was there anything between the two of you? Were you just friends, or something more?"

Refusing to redeem such a personal question with any answer, Ocato continued on his way to the Council Chambers. The journalists followed of course, still nagging for answers, but finally two guards came to his aid and herded them away, allowing him to pass through the heavy oak doors without pursuit.

And _finally_...some peace and quiet.

"You're late, Chancellor."

...Or not.

He turned to the great circular table at the centre of the room; it sat thirty, for full Elder Council meetings, but those only took place once or twice a year. Far more common were the eight faces that looked back at him, the Inner Council that governed the laws and affairs of Cyrodil. And, he noted, quite a number of them were tapping their fingers in impatience.

"My apologies. Journalists." The word was explanation enough. Striding over to the table, he immediately took his seat: leaning forwards, fingers laced together, politician face on. "Now then. You called an urgent meeting?"

"Ah yes," replied a Bosmer of the Council, "It is to do with the matter of-"

"The _problem_ of," another interrupted.

"-The matter of homosexuality."

He paused, not quite believing what he had just heard; "Homosexuality?"

"Yes. The Imperial Watch has noted an increase in the number of male prostitutes on the streets – and arresting them shortly thereafter, of course," the Bosmer continued, "And there have been a number of other cases around the Imperial City. It seems to be on the rise."

"Carmine. Wait," Ocato said firmly. "You called an urgent meeting – keyword being _urgent_ – over who people share their bed with?"

"It's hardly a trivial matter, Chancellor," the same interrupter from earlier insisted. Marseius Cassius, the most outspoken and opinionated of them all; it did not surprise Ocato that he should be the first to argue. "This behaviour has gone ignored for far too long. The laws must be changed."

"What's wrong with the current laws?" As it stood, homosexuality was not necessarily outlawed, but counted as public indecency – warranting a fine of twenty gold or, failing that, a few days in jail. It was enough to attach a slight social stigma to the act, so why change it?

"The current laws aren't _working_ if homosexuality continues," Marseius told him, his famously short temper already nearing its end, "It's an outrage that we've allowed it to go on for so long! The laws should be made tougher, to reinforce our Imperialistic ideals."

"Yes, I agree," spoke another Imperial, and one of the few women on the male-dominated Council, both Inner and Elder, "It is a wicked, ungodly practise. If the people cannot see this then we must tell them, before any more go astray."

Ocato sighed, and leaned back. He had nothing against homosexuality, but also nothing _for_ it; quite simply, it didn't concern him. "Well I presume some of you disagree, or you wouldn't have called a meeting."

"I disagree," Carmine said at once – and given the Bosmer's rather liberated approach to life, Ocato could not say he was shocked. "Actually, I'm astonished we're still biased _against_ it. We live in a modern society with modern conventions, and that means leaving those old, narrow-minded ways behind."

"It's not _narrow-minded_, it's _tradition_-"

"It _is_ narrow-minded and you know it, Marseius. For a race that claims to be forward-thinking, you can't cling to the prejudice of the past-"

"Are you insinuating that Imperials are hypocritical?"

"Gentlemen!" Ocato interrupted loudly. The two were known to dispute, and once they started, it was difficult to get them to stop, "Calm yourselves, both of you. Let's keep this civil. Does anyone else agree with Carmine?"

"This one does," declared a Khajiit, the only other female in the room besides the Imperial allied with Marseius, "Empire is open to new ideas, cultures. This is no different."

"And me," said an Orc, to which everyone stared incredulously, "What? Just because I'm a warrior-"

"It's more the fact that you're big and green, really," Carmine pointed out, evidently as surprised as the rest of them, "But welcome to the cause. Who else?"

"Um, excuse me," a rather timid-looking Breton man raised his hand, "I agree. With Carmine, that is. We should legalise it."

"Fed up of paying for your kicks, eh Olivier?"

"Marseius," Ocato said sharply.

"Hmph. Jelani will side with Imperials," finished the Argonian representative of the Inner Council, "It is nature's law. Should be ours as well."

"Fine. That's four in favour, three against," he turned to the eighth and last person at the table, as well as the only other Altmer on the Council, "Aluin?"

Perhaps on account of their shared heritage, or perhaps because of Aluin's cautious, calculated approach to problems, Ocato normally found himself agreeing with what the other had to say. In this case, he rather hoped Aluin would side with Carmine and the 'for' party, because then the majority vote would win out, and save him the headache of making a decision/getting blamed for it later. But apparently the fates were laughing at him today, because after a drawn-out minute of thought, the High Elf arrived at his decision, and said the three words Ocato really didn't want to hear:

"I am against."

And gave no reason as to why.

"...So you're evenly divided." Heaven forbid if his life were to be _easy_ for once.

"And you hold the final vote," Carmine nodded, before adding: "Of course, I know you will make the right choice. All we need to do is drop the twenty gold fine and spread the word that homosexuality is perfectly acceptable-"

"Now just wait a minute. What makes you think he'll side with you?" the Imperial woman cut across him, "Ocato follows the good and gracious path of the Nine. He knows the right choice is to have it outlawed."

"Never mind the Nine, this is bad for _us_," said Marseius, "It's damaging to both the morality and reputation of our people. How would we look to the rest of the provinces, if we permitted this debauchery?"

Ocato sighed tiredly, "Then what would you suggest we do?"

"Throw homosexuals in prison, where they belong," was the stern, brusque answer, "Or at least up the fine to one thousand gold."

"O-one thousand?" the Breton across the table gaped, going a rather sickly shade of pale, "On par with _murder?_"

"That _is_ a little extreme, Marseius-"

"It's completely necessary to stop the spread of homosexuality-"

"What's so bad about it?" Carmine demanded – for a man of such small stature, he could certainly be fierce, "If it's fully consensual, and no-one gets hurt-"

"That's what you said about prostitution. If it were up to you, we'd lounge around doing Skooma all day, sleeping with our livestock-"

"Everyone, please, calm down-"

"Well if it were up to _you_ we'd be too prudish to even _touch_ each other, since any form of affection is apparently a sin against nature. Just how do you think you _got_ here, Marseius? Did the gods spit you out, maybe?"

"I'm not the product of hedonism-"

"Look, just stop for a moment-"

"Did I say that? You're jumping to your own conclusions now. Or perhaps you have a guilty conscience?"

"How _dare_ you-"

"_Stop!_"

And suddenly, everyone was silent.

Ocato, stood up from his chair, palms splayed flat against the table, glared at the eight of them – the two main arguers, and the others who had half-shouted their opinions for and against.

"We are still struggling with the Oblivion crisis," the Chancellor said lowly, his expression as dark as the Brotherhood and just as murderous, "I have to finish repairing the Imperial City, smooth things over with the Provinces, _find a new Emperor, _and select a bodyguard to take Evangeline's place. Who I haven't yet had time to mourn for, I might add. And _you_-" his hands curled into fists, and all that anger – at them for wasting his time, at the world for making his life so difficult, at the Emperors for leaving him all this responsibility, and at _himself,_ for not saving Uriel, Martin, Evangeline, _everyone –_ came spilling out: "And you call an _urgent meeting_ to discuss who people should share their bed with?"

"But-"

"But-!"

"Enough! Emergency gatherings are for _emergencies only, _and who is sleeping with who does _not_ count as a life-threatening situation! I have more important things to attend to than these petty, time-wasting squabbles. _Meeting adjourned!_"

Whatever protests that followed went ignored. Without so much as a glance back, he turned and swiftly departed the room. There were people to see, problems to be solved, and-

"Chancellor, Chancellor! A few quick questions about Evangeline Beanique...?"

Oh for _gods sake_.

* * *

"A message?" Modryn frowned, regarding the boy before him with a generous amount of suspicion, "Who from?"

The messenger fidgeted, a mix of anxiety to get the rest of his invitations delivered, and nerves at the – admittedly rather intimidating – Mohawked man before him; "Ocato, sir."

"Ocato? As in High Chancellor, the?" he said, still very much in the realms of disbelief. The Elder Council and its upmarket politics had roughly _sod all_ to do with the Fighters Guild, just the way he liked it. "Let me see that," he snatched the parchment away from the messenger, unfolding it and swiftly scanning the words within. What he found just about made his jaw drop. "A job interview at the Imperial Palace? Are you sure you don't have the wrong person?"

"It's intended for one Modryn Oreyn, sir. Champion and second-in-command of the Fighters Guild."

"But why me, of all people? The Empire has its own Legion, they've never needed the Guild for anything."

"You were on the list of candidates, sir. Came highly recommended," and finally, the messenger's impatience won out, "I have other people to see to. Just show up at the date and place on the invitation, and the Chancellor can interview you."

"But I-" he glanced at the parchment again. _You have been selected as a potential candidate for the prestigious position of bodyguard._ It was that little word _prestigious_ that got him. It summed up precisely what he thought of politics – pompous, pretentious, and socially parasitic. "Well, flattered as I am, I shall have to say no- hey," he realised he was talking to empty space, "Where'd he go?"

The door was still slightly open. He hurried outside, but the messenger was already half way down the road; "Wait!" he called after him, though there was no indication that the boy had heard, "Tell Ocato I respectfully decli- no, he's already gone." Well, that was annoying. He could always go to the Imperial City and tell Ocato in person he didn't want the job, but simply not showing up to the interview would accurately convey the same message.

"Modryn?" said a voice, and he turned to see a Fighters Guild Porter gazing curiously at him, "What's going on?"

"Job interview for the position of bodyguard. From the High Chancellor."

The man gaped, looking rather like a fish as he did so. Had Modryn not remembered those tact lessons from Vilenna a few years back, he would have told him. "You got selected to be _Ocato's __bodyguard?_"

"As a _potential_ bodyguard. He's interviewing all the candidates," he tutted, and idly tossed the parchment onto the wooden table, "Well, he's got one less person to talk to now."

Oh, now he really _did_ look like a fish. "You're not going to the interview?"

"Of course not_._ I don't need a new job, I like the one I've got."

"But – but – you could be Ocato's bodyguard! That's as prestigious as it gets-"

"Precisely," Modryn interrupted firmly, folding his arms, "Anything that claims to be prestigious is quite frankly up its own backside. No thank you. Besides, I hate politics, I want to stay as far away from it as possible."

"Yeah, but you don't have to get involved in any of that stuff. You get paid like a king, you get to live in the palace – and it's not like anyone else will sneak in now they've tightened up security, so you don't even have to _do_ anything. It's practically retirement."

"Retirement? Just how old do you think I am?" Granted, he was getting on a bit now, but that was beside the point, "I'll get bored, sitting in a tower all day with nothing to do. No, I'd much rather stay here."

"What's that?" asked Kurz, the Guilds resident Orc and archer, wandering over to join the conversation, "Something about Modryn retiring. Can I have his job, then?"

"Cheeky snot," Modryn answered, though his tone and the light push he gave Kurz was more playful than offended, "And no, you can't. I'm staying right here."

"He got a job interview to be Chancellor Ocato's personal bodyguard," the Porter explained, "And he's _not going_."

The Orc raised an eyebrow incredulously, "You serious? Some people would kill for that kind of opportunity."

"And I'm not one of them. The palace is well-guarded enough, especially after the recent break-ins. Sounds pretty dull to me."

"Sure it's dull, when things run smoothly," Kurz said, before flashing him a sly grin, "But in politics, things never run smoothly, do they?"

Modryn paused. He hadn't thought of that.

"This is a dangerous time to be High Chancellor – probably why they're so quick to replace the old bodyguard...what did she die of again? It mentioned it in the Courier..."

"'Natural causes'. Didn't elaborate any further," Oreyn told him, though a frown creased his brow and mouth, "I've been wondering about that. Seems too convenient, somehow."

"In any case, Ocato needs a new guard," Kurz continued, waving a hand carelessly, "The Oblivion thing might be over, but a lot of people are still angry at the lack of Emperor and such, and he's the guy they're venting it on. I can see a few assassination attempts in the future. Plus, a load of thieves will try and break into the palace, if only to brag about it afterwards," he nodded, expression thoughtful, "Sounds like plenty of adventure for you, Oreyn. More than staying here to do the Guildmaster's workload, at any rate."

"Hmph," he pursed his lips, tapping his foot against the old, bare floorboards, "...I'm still not sure. It's too close to politics for my liking, and where there's politics, there's corruption. That's half the reason I left Morrowind," and the whole reason he loved the Cyrodil Fighters Guild so much: everything could be taken at face-value, and he could always turn away contracts that seemed a little shady. In Morrowind, the Fighters Guild was run by the Cammona Tong criminals, which in turn was run by House Hlaalu – and House Hlaalu was as embroiled in corrupt politics as it was possible to be. Everyone was manipulating each other, and everything had an ulterior motive. He'd left for Cyrodil soon enough.

"Well...yeah, I'll give you that. The Elder Council isn't famed for its honesty," Kurz admitted, "But so long as you stay your loveable blunt self and don't accept any bribes, you've nothing to feel bad for."

And then, Modryn remembered: "You know, I might not even get the job. There's a whole list of candidates."

"So what's the harm in going along to the interview?" insisted the Porter, "You should attend that, at least. Meet the High Chancellor, tell us about it afterwards. It'd be foolish not to go."

"Besides," the Orc beside him added with a grin, "I really want that job of yours."

A rare smile tugged at Oreyn's lips as he answered: "You'll change your mind. Just wait until you see all the paperwork."


	2. Chapter 2

Also...! For the purposes of the story, you'll have to imagine Modryn having a slightly raspier voice than Ocato. Otherwise it's essentially Mr Craig Sechler (voice actor) falling in love with Mr Craig Sechler. Not that I'm opposed to this, mind you...

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Two**

The last time he'd been at Green Emperor Way, it had been quiet. Peaceful.

Of course, last time there hadn't been a group of protesters outside the palace.

Perhaps Kurz had been right about those future assassination attempts. He'd read about the protests: now that the honeymoon period of 'thank-gods-we-survived' was over, people had realised they were an Empire without an Emperor, and lashed out at the Elder Council's decision to assume control. More, Modryn felt, because they needed someone to blame than anything else, and the likes of Ocato conveniently filled that position. He didn't envy the man.

Pushing his way through the group – if he edged sideways, the sharpness of his iron shoulder-guards did most of the work – he finally reached the front, to where the Palace guards were cautiously keeping the crowd at bay. He showed them his interview slip, received a nod of approval, and was allowed inside.

Surprisingly, his next destination was right in front of him – just outside the Council Chambers, where someone had thoughtfully set up a line of chairs. Several of them were occupied by the other waiting candidates, from fidgeting Legion soldiers to anxious mages, scribbling down Alchemy formulae to keep their nerves at bay. But all, he quickly realised, were dressed for the occasion: immaculate steel armour, fine silk robes. Neatly-combed hair and clean-cut faces. And all, he also realised, were staring at him strangely, almost incredulously. When he glanced down at the old, weather-beaten cuirass he wore every day, it was apparent why.

Well, it would just have to do. Hopefully Ocato wouldn't judge _too_ harshly on first impressions.

* * *

So far, he was not terribly pleased.

Perhaps he was judging too harshly on first impressions. Still, such things were important, and he had to at least _get on _with his future bodyguard. So far, no-one fit the bill: Legion soldier after Legion soldier, each as bland as the last. That, or absent-minded mages, more concerned with their own magical research than doing their job. He needed someone cautious, vigilant. Granted, Legion soldiers were vigilant, but by the _Nine_, they were dull.

"How many more candidates?" he asked the nearby scribe with a touch of weariness. A whole afternoon of interviews, and he was not one step closer to his goal. What an utter waste of time.

"Just the one, sir. Modryn Oreyn."

"Ah yes, from the Fighters Guild. Recommended by the Guildmaster, wasn't he?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Who _is_ the Guildmaster? I'd heard there was a new one fairly recently."

"The Champion of Cyrodil, Chancellor."

Ocato paused, frowning; "The Champion? I thought he was the Arch-Mage?"

"He's that too, sir."

Granted, all that adventuring and saving the world would hone the mind and body, but still... "He can certainly multi-task. Anyway, send Oreyn in."

"Sir." The scribe left the room. And not a moment later, he saw Modryn Oreyn for the first time.

Admittedly, he had not been expecting _that_.

He did, at first, think the wrong person had wandered into the room. Probably because the Dunmer looked so very _different_ to all the others, from the grim, no-nonsense expression on his face to the armour that looked as though it had seen a war or two. And...the _Mohawk_...

He planted himself in the chair beside Ocato without waiting to be invited, nor did he offer a hand for the Chancellor to shake, instead crossing his arms over his chest. And with a sharp, stern tone that matched his appearance perfectly, announced: "If I had known I was being interviewed _last_, I would have brought something to read."

It was a decidedly unorthodox conversation-starter, and Ocato found himself taken aback, though not appalled. At the start of the day he might have been, considering the Dark Elf crude and uncouth; but it was late afternoon, he was very tired, and in all honesty, the change from the mundane politeness he'd so far encountered was rather refreshing.

"My apologies," he gave as his reply, "There were a lot of candidates to interview first-hand. I couldn't entrust the task to anyone else."

"Sensible enough," Oreyn nodded, as if in approval, "Then we'd best get on with it. Do you have questions to ask?"

"That is how interviews normally work, yes."

Modryn looked quite surprised at the reply – as was Ocato. He normally chose his words much more carefully...after all, his sarcasm could be seen as quite cruel when it was taken the wrong way. But Modryn did not seem the type to be easily offended. Sure enough, the warrior's answer was not angry in the slightest, though decidedly blunt: "I've never had an interview. You don't need one in the Guild; if you're no good at your job, you wind up dead. Or hopefully escape with all four limbs and enough sense to quit."

Ocato wagered the Dunmer had also never learned What Not To Say In Polite Company. But there was something about that uninhibited frankness that appealed to him, probably because he so rarely encountered it.

"But how would you know?" he asked him, "Clearly a lack of skill was never a problem for you. You're Guild Champion, after all."

"Even I was a novice once. But I learned to fight before I joined up – you have to, really. It's not as forgiving as the Mages Guild."

"No, I suppose it isn't," the Chancellor conceded, and glanced down at the weapon at Oreyn's hip, "A mace? Everyone else has had a sword so far."

To which he received a snort; "Swords are nice and flashy and all, but they're useless against even half-decent armour. Whereas blunt weapons...well, the end result might be messy, but it gets the job done."

"It must be heavy, surely."

"I barely notice it anymore," Modryn shrugged, "Besides, I just wear less armour. It balances out."

"Unusual. Most fighters I know put defence above attack."

"Most Legion soldiers, you mean? A full suit of armour looks impressive, and it can save your life – or condemn it, if you can't move fast enough to avoid an attack. But I'm not fond of light armour, so I stick to the heavier stuff, just less of it."

A smile curled at the corners of Ocato's mouth, "You know, a candidate came in earlier wearing a full daedric suit..."

"_Daedric?_" the mer sounded as incredulous as he looked, and no wonder. Such armour was meant for the dremora, and one dremora had the strength of at least three men, "He must have been huge."

"Actually..." it was improper to gossip, but to hell with it, he'd had a long day: "He was wearing it to impress. Had a few feather spells to hold the weight, I think. Only they'd run out by the time the interview finished, and he couldn't get out of his seat."

Now an Imperial wouldn't have laughed; he knew this with absolute certainty. They would have either shown concern for the armour-wearer's well-being, or taken offence to the loose-lipped story. But Oreyn was not an Imperial – he was a mer, and like all mer, found the anecdote rather amusing. Just a low, subdued chuckle, but it was enough.

"In the end, I had to fetch him some strength potions. I'd have hired him for entertainment value, but I do need to find someone who can do their job-"

"Chancellor! Chancellor Ocato!"

He glanced up, just in time to see a young and evidently _new_ messenger hurry into the room, without so much as a knock on the door first. For such rudeness, he expected at least an emergency, but instead got: "The Minister for Health and Safety wanted to talk to you about-"

"You interrupted me for that?" he frowned, displeased, "I thought I made it clear to everyone: no disturbances unless someone's found another Septim heir-"

"But, but, he said it was really important. It's about the Palace floors, he wants new legislations put in place-"

"Now really, this is no time to-"

"-Before someone gets hurt, so he wanted to discuss it before the Council, and-"

"Hey," Modryn cut across the talkative messenger effortlessly, silencing her at once, "Sod off. We're busy."

And Ocato decided then and there that he would hire the man.

"Actually," the Chancellor spoke, rising from his chair, "Our interview has come to its end. However, messenger, you may inform the Minister for Health and Safety that I must _regretfully decline_ his proposal for a meeting due to a prior engagement."

"But-"

"Though I'm certain his talk on the proper safety standard of floorboards is no doubt fascinating, these floors have been around since the Ayleid age. They shall certainly last another millennia or two," Ocato told her, "And if the good Minister still thinks otherwise, he is quite capable of dealing with the problem himself. That is, after all, what he is paid for."

Logic was a truly marvellous thing – the main advantage being, it was impossible to deny. Her argument clearly lost, the messenger stopped insisting her cause, mumbling a goodbye before slinking off. After her departure, he turned back to Oreyn: "You needn't sit. The interview is over now."

"But..." the warrior frowned, apprehensively standing up, "You didn't even get on to any of the proper questions."

"Proper questions?"

"Asking me about my philosophy on life, things like that."

"Oh, but I did. Do you not remember?" Ocato replied, with just a touch of slyness, "I asked you about your choice of weapons and armour. You explained that you were willing to sacrifice form for the sake of function, and that efficiency is the most important thing. That tells me everything I need to know."

Modryn looked the odd combination of annoyed at the trickery, and yet unwillingly impressed – or perhaps Ocato was just imagining things, as the look only lingered for a second or so; "Then what about your magic? The only thing that tells me about you is that you're book-smart."

"You would need to know which schools of magic I specialise in, and which spells I favour. For the record: Mysticism, Alchemy, and Destruction, plus enough Restoration to get by," the Chancellor told him with a secretive smile, "You can dwell on what that says about me as I show you around the Palace."

"I suppose it could mean- wait, show me around the Palace? I thought you had a prior engagement?"

"I do. Namely, giving you a tour," said Ocato, leading Oreyn out of the room, "After all, I'd rather like you to be my bodyguard. So you'll need to know where everything is."

* * *

Modryn was momentarily stunned.

He had the job.

He'd turned up in battered armour, his comfortable-but-inelegant leathers – hell, he hadn't even _shaved_ properly this morning. And _he had the job_.

"So this is, of course, the Council Chambers," Ocato began at once, effortlessly sinking into the role of chirpy tour guide – but then, it was hardly surprising that a politician should also be a good actor, "As a bodyguard, you need only accompany me at open sessions, which can be freely attended by the public, up there," he pointed upwards to the second floor, and the balcony that overlooked the Chambers, "Just in case of assassins among the crowd and such."

It immediately struck Modryn how _casual_ Ocato sounded. Surely the thought of danger around every corner, or people wanting you dead, would be a terrifying prospect. But he could only assume the Altmer was so accustomed to it that it simply didn't bother him anymore.

"And if we head outside, I can show you- oh," the sound of shouting and general chaos made itself known to both of them, "The protesters must have gotten in. But we don't really have time to wait for the guards...you don't mind passing through them, do you?"

He shook his head. He would have thought Ocato would be the more reluctant to face the crowds, but evidently not.

He had to admit: being the High Chancellor took some steel. No sooner had Ocato stepped foot outside the Chambers when he was spotted by the group, and anarchy erupted. Several of the protesters were hauled off by the Palace guards as they attempted to throw themselves at the mer; whether to actually attack him or just get up close and personal, he didn't know. He found himself automatically stepping between Ocato and the crowd, just in case one managed to get past the security, though no-one did. But he couldn't stop the furious shouting:

"Usurper!"

"You just want more power!"

"You'd crown yourself Emperor if you could!"

"Azura," Modryn murmured to himself, with a glance over at the Chancellor; his pace unhurried, head held high, face emotionless, as though he simply couldn't hear the jeering. So it remained until they reached the silence of the second floor, and he could make himself heard, "They're not exactly kind to you, are they?"

"It is to be expected," if Ocato was at all stung by the insults, his voice did not betray it, "The person in charge is always to blame for one thing or another."

Whatever other opinions Ocato had on the protesters, he kept to himself. No other words were exchanged, beyond Ocato's explanations of each room as they went up another floor, and another, and another. As brief and brisk as it was, it was still well past sunset by the time they reached the very top of the Imperial Palace.

"And these are my quarters. As you'd be required to stay close by, you would sleep in the adjoining room, just there-"

"Ocato."

The High Elf stopped abruptly. And it occurred to Modryn that he should have perhaps called him 'Chancellor', at least, but he had the habit of forgetting his manners. In any case, he'd gone and said it now; Ocato looked rather surprised that someone had actually referred to him by name.

"Before I make any decisions," Oreyn continued, because he'd already established in his mind that this would be the deciding factor, "I have a question for you. Answer honestly, and I'll take the job. If you lie – and I'll _know_ – I'm going straight back to the Guild."

To Ocato's credit, he did not look nervous in the slightest, as most would when confronted with such a blunt ultimatum. But then, he knew that unemotional, unaffected mask bureaucrats wore from his days back in Morrowind; "Go on."

"How did Evangeline Beanique really die?"

Suppressed as it was, he saw the Chancellor tense. Most would have missed it, but Modryn was adept at reading the unspoken, to both anticipate an opponent's next move, and outside of battle, to detect any dishonesty. He could see the hesitation, the natural instinct to lie, and immediately prepared himself to turn around and return to Chorrol. But then:

"...She was murdered," Ocato said quietly, "During the theft of an Elder Scroll."

Given the numerous fabricated excuses in the newspapers, Oreyn knew Ocato would never say such a thing unless it were, for once, the truth. And since the Chancellor evidently trusted him enough to tell him the real story, Modryn figured he could return the favour. Before he could voice this, however, Ocato continued:

"I'm not looking to replace Evangeline – my bodyguard, yes, but not _her_. And though she was very dear to me, I know she was not as vigilant in her duties as she should have been," he sighed, though not just for the sake of sighing, but with an actual _exhaustion_, as though this were the first time he'd been able to speak about her so freely, "That's why I'm looking for someone different; a fighter rather than a mage, someone actually cut out to be a guard. I don't want anything else stolen, and I don't want anymore people hurt."

Modryn was wordless for a moment or so – in truth, surprised at the raw honesty he was seeing before him. It was completely unexpected from the likes of a politician.

"That won't happen," he said at last, voice low and tinged with Morrowind rasp, "Not while I'm working here, at any rate."

* * *

As soon as Modryn entered the Chorrol Fighters Guild, he was surrounded by people.

"Well?" the Porter was the first to speak, as wide-eyed and eager as a puppy, "How did it go?"

"Did you get the job?" asked Kurz.

Modryn gave him such a solemn, serious look that the Orc was actually ready to offer his condolences. However, he couldn't keep it up for very long, and a grin found its way onto his face: "Just how incompetent do you think I am, Kurz?"

"You _did_ get it! I knew you would!" he crowed at once, in even higher spirits than Modryn himself, "Sit down, sit down. I want to know all about it."

"You lot don't half like your gossip," the Dunmer grumbled, though with no real heat behind the words, and allowed himself to be guided to the dining table, "Fine, fine. What do you want to know?"

"What was Ocato like?"

"Alright, I suppose. For a politician." He remembered the questions about his mace, which he'd answered unthinkingly, not knowing just how much of himself he was giving away, "Clever bastard, though. I'll have to watch out for that."

"What questions did he ask you?"

"Was he as impatient as everyone says he is?"

"Is he handsome?"

"One question at a ti- wait," he frowned at that last one, asked by Sabine Laul, the Guild smith, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"A lot of people say he's very good-looking, especially for his age," she shrugged nonchalantly, though it could not disguise the curiosity in her eyes, "Any truth to it?"

"Well I suppose he's – I mean, reasonably – in a way – look, I don't know, alright?" he finished at last, more embarrassed than he would have liked, "I wasn't paying any attention to his appearance. I don't even know what qualifies as attractive by Altmer standards."

"Really tall and really yellow," Kurz told him.

Modryn rolled his eyes; "Your knowledge of world culture never ceases to astound me."

"Hey, it's more than _you_ know."

"Oh, stop squabbling. We're supposed to be celebrating Modryn's new job," said Sabine, before the Dunmer could formulate a no doubt blistering reply, "I say we break out the Tamikas and have a party."

"Actually..." Modryn held up one hand, "I can't stay for that. I can't stay for _anything_, since I'm technically supposed to be in the Imperial City right now. I just came back to say my goodbyes."

The Porter blinked owlishly, "You're...you're leaving?"

"Well I have to, don't I? I can't guard Ocato in Chorrol," Oreyn told him, "You said it yourself, remember? I'll be living in the Palace. I still have to stop by my house to collect my things."

"That's the downside of working for the Chancellor," said Kurz sadly, "We'll miss you, Oreyn."

A little uncomfortable at how sentimental this was getting, Modryn resorted to his famously brusque sense of humour: "What are you talking about? You can steal my job now, like you wanted."

It worked, at least, and Kurz gave a toothy grin, "Ooh no. I had a look at the paperwork. The Guildmaster can do that himself."

"I thought you'd say that," the warrior answered smugly, turning to the others, "And stop looking so depressed, all of you. I can still write letters and visit occasionally."

"I don't know," Sabine worried her lower lip doubtfully, "Bodyguard is a full-time position. I can't imagine you'll get an _hour_ off, never mind a day or two."

Modryn glanced away. He had known, of course, that he would have to move to the Imperial City, but merely viewed it as a change of scenery. Confronted with the reality of actually leaving the Guild behind, it was far more painful than he'd anticipated. It was, after all, his home; he had a separate house in which to sleep, but the Guild was where he spent his days, and truly felt at ease. To know that he might never be able to see it again...

Homesickness was a strange thing. He'd moved _Province_ from Morrowind to Cyrodil without so much as a glance back, but the shift from Chorrol to the city – which wasn't even that far away – weighed down on him in an entirely unfamiliar way.

Having said his goodbyes, and declined the offer of a drink or four, Oreyn departed the Fighters Guild, travelling down the ever-familiar path to his house. Admittedly, he had no problems leaving _this_ behind: it was just a little wooden shack, a strictly luxury purchase so he didn't have to sleep in the Guild hall. Or rather, _lie awake_ in the Guild hall, kept up by the snoring of the other members.

Letting himself into the modest dwelling, it took only a glance to realise how little he owned. Certainly, there were the odds and ends necessary for a house, but nothing that would not be provided at his new residence. In the end, it came down to a neat bundle of clothes, a spare mace, and a repair hammer. The only other thing he could bring along would be...

Well.

He'd never actually intended to become an artist. But what with his temporary expulsion from the Guild – which he'd tried to view as retirement, to make himself feel better – he'd taken up painting, because that was what retired people _did_. But even though he'd gotten his job back fairly quickly, the brushes and paint pots and other such supplies still remained.

It wasn't like he'd need them at the Palace. If he was going to be an ever-watchful bodyguard, he wouldn't have time for such hobbies. Even so, it was a waste to leave them here, when he'd barely used them...

After a moment of thought, he added everything to the bag.


	3. Chapter 3

Ironically, the latter part of this chapter – the bit concerning insomnia – was written at about two in the morning, when I couldn't sleep.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Three**

"Mysticism, Alchemy and Destruction," Modryn wondered out loud. As the only one guarding Ocato's chambers, he didn't have to worry about being overheard; evidently the Altmer had insisted against more guards up here, despite the recent infiltration. "What _does _that say about him? 'And enough Restoration' to get by... what did he mean?"

Whatever other musings he may have had were brought to a halt when the main door creaked open, and in walked a particularly tired-looking High Chancellor. Of course, Ocato always looked tired, or at least in Modryn's opinion, but even by usual standards, it appeared to have been a long day.

"Oreyn," he greeted shortly, inclining his head a touch wearily as he passed the warrior, and into his chambers. And Modryn might have left it at that, but something compelled him to converse; they'd barely exchanged words since the start of his employment roughly one week ago. Granted, he wasn't renowned for being talkative, and he _definitely_ didn't make friends at the drop of a hat, but even so. This was the man he was supposed to be guarding with his life, and yet he felt like a complete stranger.

"Ocato," he spoke, stepping into the mer's bedroom. Ocato was already settled on the bed – and undoing his robes, but he was apparently too tired to notice or care that someone else was present. He did, at least, look up, and Modryn continued: "What did you mean at the interview, when you talked about the magic you preferred?"

"When was that? Oh, I remember. It's still on your mind?"

"I can't figure it out," Oreyn frowned, "You like Destruction magic, so you like... destroying things...?"

To which Ocato gave a low, amused chuckle, "Not quite. Try again."

"Well..." the Dunmer began slowly, speaking as he worked it out in his head, "Mysticism is soul-trapping, so... you enchant your own items. Alchemy, you make your own potions. Destruction is defending yourself, Restoration is healing yourself..." it clicked, "You prefer doing everything yourself. You don't like having to rely on other people."

Tired as he was, the Chancellor managed a smile, "That's good guesswork. And probably quite true. However, that isn't why I dedicated myself to those particular subjects."

Modryn frowned, sure he had been correct, "Then what was?"

And that smile turned ever so slightly mischievous: "Mysticism, so I could use telekinesis to tie people's shoelaces together. Alchemy, so I could slip aphrodisiacs into the scholars' wine before they started a lecture. Destruction, so I could shock people in their sleep, just enough to make their hair go frizzy," he looked even more amused at the surprise on Modryn's face, "And for all the times I got caught – Restoration, to fix up discipline bruises. I got rid of corporal punishment when I became Arch-Mage."

Modryn stared at him for a good, long minute, "... I can't believe you became a politician," he muttered at last.

"I wasn't _always_ this drab and stodgy, you know. I used to have less wrinkles, too."

"I never said you were," the other pointed out at once, "And you're not that wrinkly either." He then paused, frowning; that hadn't come out quite as complimentary as it had sounded in his head. He had never been very good at flattering people – it was probably one of the main reasons he was still single after all these years.

Thankfully, Ocato was either too tired or too used to having praise heaped on him to pay close attention to the words; "Ah, you are too kind. Unfortunately, I know politics is not considered terribly exciting by most. Everyone was quite surprised when I went into it," he spoke, "I thought I could do a better job of running things than the leaders at the time. Of course, I now know how difficult it is to be in charge."

"Do you regret it?" Oreyn asked, his curiosity over-ruling his tact, but Ocato didn't seem to mind, "Choosing this path?"

"Regret? I don't really feel it any more. You _can't_, when your every decision affects thousands," the mer shook his head, "But no, I don't. Even if I had tried to avoid it, I probably would have ended up here anyway – I was always too ambitious to settle for anything less."

Modryn paused in consideration. He supposed he possessed some leadership qualities, such as being shrewd, no-nonsense, organised. But it had never been his intention to become second-in-command of the Guild. All fighters aspired to be Champion, but he'd simply ploughed his way through the contracts until he woke up one day and realised he'd made it to the top. Still, his ambition had never stretched further than getting the hell out of Morrowind.

He had, up until now, assumed the same of Ocato – that he'd simply followed his career and ended up as Chancellor. In retrospect, that made no sense; you couldn't _drift_ into being leader of the Empire. It was logical that Ocato had always aimed as far as it was possible to reach, but almost unfathomable to think that anyone could be so driven. So what did that make him: determined, or power-hungry? Was there even a difference?

"Lost in your own world, hm?" he heard, and realised with some startlement that he had drifted off in introspection, and also that the man before him had resumed undressing, "What's on your mind?"

"Noth-" he paused when Ocato slipped his red silk robes off his shoulders, revealing the aureate skin beneath, "-ing," he finished, looking despite that little inner reminder that it was rude to stare at High Chancellors. Those robes evidently bulked up the Elf's frame – he hadn't realised just how _thin_ Ocato actually was. Of course, all Altmer were on the slender side, but there was something decidedly gaunt about him.

"Ocato," he asked before he could hold his tongue in check, "How often do you eat?"

The politician raised a brow, but answered: "When I can, naturally. I tend to snack while I'm working, since I don't have the time for a big meal."

He busied himself folding his robes, and in the process, missed Oreyn pursing his lips in disapproval. Snacking was fine, if it was precisely that: an accompaniment between larger meals. Except it clearly _wasn't_ – it only took a glance to know that Ocato wasn't getting enough food. Now he was by no means Ocato's nanny, and he doubted a stern mothering would be well-received. But to put it bluntly, it was his task to stop the Chancellor from dying, and he figured that included starvation, accidental or not.

Watching his employer climb into bed – and fall asleep before his head hit the pillow – Modryn began to formulate his plan.

* * *

"Sweetroll?" the chef blinked in confusion at the odd request, "Why?"

"Because I just told you to," Modryn frowned, tapping one foot impatiently against the floor, "Look, it's very important. You don't have to make a whole cake. But I need it delivered to me as soon as it's out of the oven."

"If you say so," the chef muttered, but turned and began lining up the ingredients. Satisfied, Modryn departed the kitchen, making his way back up to Ocato's quarters, where the man was working.

His _original _plan had been for Ocato to awake to a cooked breakfast. Unfortunately, as he'd discovered the hard away – arriving with said breakfast to find the Chancellor wide awake, surrounded by paperwork, and too busy to eat anything – Ocato rose even earlier than he did. Which was saying something, because he awoke no later than six in the morning; considered hellishly early by anyone who wasn't a farmer, and certainly by the ever-baffled members of the Chorrol Fighters Guild.

Although it wasn't so much a case of Ocato being a morning person as a reluctant sleeper. Though the man was out more or less as soon as he crawled into bed, Oreyn had already been roused from sleep at all manner of ungodly hours, by the Chancellor's movements in the room next door. He gathered that the mer woke at irregular intervals, and outright _gave up_ on the notion of sleep anywhere between four and five in the morning.

Work without rest, next to no food, dark circles under his eyes at the end of each day... how Ocato managed to make himself presentable to the rest of the world was beyond Modryn's comprehension. No-one seemed to have realised that their Chancellor was slowly buckling under the strain, especially without an Emperor to co-rule with him. And while he still didn't know him too well, Oreyn wanted to ensure his employer's well-being, if only for the sake of doing his job right. He wasn't sure how to fix the insomnia short of a sleeping draught – which he lacked the knowledge to make himself, and just wouldn't trust to anyone else – but he could at least get the Altmer to eat more often.

Which was best achieved through enticing him with freshly-baked sweetroll. Not the... _healthiest_ of diet choices, but as far as he was concerned, Ocato needed to increase widthways anyway. Stepping swiftly, he resumed his position outside of Ocato's room, hoping that his absence had not been noticed. But when he glanced through the ajar doorway, the mer was still waist-deep in paperwork.

* * *

Ocato stopped. Sniffed.

... Was that _sweetroll?_

The aroma was quite strong, as though it had been baked only moments before. His rumbling stomach agreed, but he decided to ignore it. There was simply too much work to be done to stop and investigate.

Oh, but it did smell _good_, though...

He shook his head, as if to deny himself such a distraction. He still had to pen this letter to Count Andel Indarys. Those bandits outside Cheydinhal were cutting off important trade routes, and if Indarys was too cooped up in his castle to take notice or do anything about it, Ocato would just have to order his guard for him.

But that _scent_- no. Work to do. Correspondence to write. Counts to admonish. Very important.

He got so far, until he realised he'd started the letter with _Dear Sweetroll. _Huffing in irritation, he crumpled up the parchment and threw it aside. Starting anew, he got as far as _Dear _before his stomach firmly established that no more work was to be done until it got some food, thank you very much.

With a defeated sigh, he rose from his chair, wandering over to the exit. He did not have to look far; as soon as he opened the door, he found Modryn standing directly outside, with a plate of sweetroll in his hands and a bored expression that suggested he'd been lingering there for some time.

The Chancellor regarded him, not sure whether to be bemused or just plain puzzled; "What are you doing?"

When the Dunmer saw Ocato, he immediately rolled his eyes, exasperated, "Azura, _finally_. You took your time."

"I- what?" he glanced down again at the sweetroll, "Is that meant for me?"

"If it wasn't, I'd have eaten it by now."

"Then why on Mundus are you standing out here? You don't need my permission to enter my room. You could've just handed it to me."

"And you would've placed it aside, and forgotten about it," Modryn finished with a frown, "I wanted you to come and get it. Since you're out here, I'll assume you're hungry."

"Well yes of course, but-"

"Good. Great. Take this, then," the plate of sweetroll was thrust into Ocato's hands, "Finish it down to the last crumb. And if you want more, I'll go pester the chef again."

Though he had the food, Ocato did not return to his room. Instead he stood, stared at Oreyn for a moment or so, then shook his head and spoke: "Modryn... not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but... why?"

"Why?" the other repeated, with a tone that suggested the answer was painfully obvious, "Because you don't eat enough, that's why."

Funny how he could shrug off the most malicious of insults, but that one little sentence had him rather offended; "I eat plenty, thank you."

"Mm. Of course. So, what did you have for breakfast again?"

Ocato blinked, surprised, and more than a little confused. "I skipped it. Plenty of people do that, Modryn."

"Fair enough. What did you have for dinner yesterday?"

"Well... nothing. I had too much work to do."

"For lunch, then?"

"Ah, but – there was a meeting, you see. So I couldn't stop for a break. Besides, I had a large enough breakfast," at Modryn's sceptical look, he insisted, "I _did._ I had some bread and ham."

"... A sandwich."

"It wasn't – well – okay, yes it was. But it was filling enough."

"Even though you only ate half of it."

"Surely that proves how filling it was...?"

"Ocato," Modryn spoke firmly, "You have not eaten anything since yesterday morning. Said meal, and I use the term very loosely, comprised of a bit of bread and meat thrown together. Does that not worry you at all?"

Currently, the only thing worrying him was how close he was to shouting at the Dunmer. Forcing himself to slow down and stay calm, he explained as patiently as he was able: "By the standards of most, it would perhaps be troubling. But you must understand, it's not uncommon for me to skip meals. I even did it when Emperor Uriel was still here, on occasion. It's just more convenient for me to munch on something while I work."

"Which is _fine,_ but you're not even doing that, never mind full meals. You're living on next to nothing," Oreyn pointed out, his tone stern and disapproving, "I'm surprised you can even function. Just then, a minute ago – you were going to snap at me, weren't you?"

"What? No-"

"In fact, if you didn't have that Altmer patience, you'd have already fired me for nagging you so much," the fighter continued, cutting over Ocato's protest, "That irritation is your body telling you it's under stress, and that's partially due to the lack of fuel," matching his blunt words, he firmly pushed the plate further towards the mer, "Go and eat the sweetroll. Afterwards, I can guarantee you'll feel more willing to talk."

Too wearied to argue, and knowing Oreyn wouldn't take no for an answer anyway, Ocato sighed and retreated to his room, food in hand. The pile of papers on his desk still beckoned to be completed, but for once, he ignored them and settled on his bed. The sweetroll was still warm from the oven, soft and honey-sticky beneath his fingertips, and shudderingly good on his tongue. He was rather glad Modryn had chosen to stay outside instead of watching him like a hawk, as he was enjoying this far more than was entirely appropriate. Hunger evidently made food all the tastier.

When he finally licked the last crumbs from his fingers, he sat back, and realised Oreyn had been right.

Hm. Perhaps an apology was in order. Taking the empty plate with him, he went back outside, finding the Dark Elf still stood there, arms folded.

"That was quick," he remarked, "Do you feel better?"

"Admittedly, yes. So I ought to say thank you, and... sorry as well, for snapping at you earlier."

He could only tell Modryn was smiling from the ever-so-slight curling at the corner of his lips; "You didn't. You _would_ have, had the conversation continued, no doubt. Though that's something to keep in mind for the future: if you ever feel like throttling someone, it probably means you haven't eaten enough," and then his voice became more serious, "But now that you're in the mood to listen... do you see what I mean about missing meals?"

"I can't live on determination alone, no. Try as I might," the Chancellor conceded, albeit a tad reluctantly, "I know, I know... I just lose track of time when I'm working, that's all."

"What if I brought you food every so often?" Oreyn suggested, "A light meal once or twice a day, nothing big, or overly fancy. Would you break for five minutes to eat it?"

"I could... give that a go, I suppose," Ocato nodded, to Modryn's immense relief, "So long as it could be consumed quickly, then yes. I would be willing to try."

"Willing to _do_, I hope," the other corrected him, though he soon dropped the mothering tone, "But I'm glad you agree."

* * *

He had retired to bed not that long ago, but Ocato found himself wide awake.

There was something truly torturous about being unable to sleep. He'd tossed and turned for the better part of an hour, trying and failing to find a slumber-inducing position. It made him want to get up and _do_ something, because what was the point of just lying here, when there was work to be done? But he very much doubted he would get any actual paperwork shifted; after all, he was physically exhausted. But that mind of his, both his greatest strength and his worst enemy at times, refused to let him rest.

So he lay awake, and thought. He thought of all the meetings he had to attend over the next week, all the letters and forms and administrations he had to sign. He even thought about the latest complaint from the Minister for Health and Safety, which was usually enough to send him right to sleep. But mostly, he thought of Evangeline.

It had been three weeks. He still hadn't visited her grave yet.

It wasn't as though he didn't want to. But he quite literally did not have a minute to spare. Even if he mentally conjured his schedule for the next week, and even the week after that, there was not a moment of free time to be had. It was only now, in the dead of night, that he had any time on his hands.

Actually...

No, that was a ridiculous idea. He couldn't just leave the palace at this hour.

Even so, it wasn't like he was actually doing anything. It was better than just lying here.

He needed the rest, though. He hadn't slept well at all since Evangeline's passing.

So perhaps visiting her would alleviate that...?

"Oblivion," he muttered lowly, rising from the blankets. No doubt he would regret this in the morning, but he knew from experience that his thoughts would continue to pester him until he gave in. Besides, he'd never find the time if he didn't do it now.

No sooner had he finished tying the belt on his robes when he headed through the door to Oreyn's adjoining bedroom. The Dark Elf was of course fast asleep, and looked rather odd without his battle-worn armour, nor with his Mohawk in all its painstakingly-styled glory. But he did not have time to dwell on such things, and instead promptly shook the warrior awake.

"Wha-?" to his credit, Modryn was sat up and alert within seconds, looking wildly around for the source of the danger, "What is it? An intruder? Where is he?"

"There's no intruder. I just... come with me, I want to go outside for a bit."

He was given a long, incredulous stare, one tinged with weariness now the adrenaline had made a retreat, "You got me up in the middle of the night for a _walk?_"

"Not just a walk. There's something I have to do. Modryn, it's important." But at seeing the tiredness in those red eyes, Ocato came to the conclusion that maybe this spur-of-the-moment plan of his wasn't entirely fair on his bodyguard, "... Never mind, I'll just go on my own. You can go back to sleep."

The man looked seriously tempted, but shook his head with an exasperated sigh, and hauled himself from the bed, "No, it's my duty to safeguard you. Give me a moment to change."

"Be quick. There's only so much time," the Chancellor urged him, and watched, fidgeting, as the warrior dressed. Fortunately, the everyday practise had made Modryn swift with his armour, and he was fully suited-up within minutes. When he started on his hair, however, Ocato huffed impatiently, and dragged him from the room by his wrist.

He was _still_ fussing with it when they got outside, attempting to tease it into the shape with his fingers despite the lack of hair product available. Not that Ocato could say anything, given he too liked his hair with not a strand out of place. But he could blame his job for that: it was simply _improper_ for a respectable politician to have unruly hair. He could only hope there were no journalists about to see the state he was in now. They'd probably have a field day.

"Ocato, where on Mundus are we going?" Modryn asked at last. The Chancellor was leading the way, in long Altmer strides that he had to jog to keep up with.

"To visit someone."

"At this hour? Who?"

And without a pause in his walk, nor a glance back at the fighter, Ocato answered: "Evangeline."

"Eva-" and then they descended the stairs of Green Emperor Way, to the rows of graves among the neatly clipped grass, and Modryn understood.

"She should be here somewhere... there-" Ocato found the fairly unremarkable marble gravestone, and knelt before it, tracing the name with his fingertips as he read aloud: "Evangeline Beanique. Esteemed Battlemage and bodyguard to the High Chancellor Ocato. Died in the line of duty, aged 55."

Oreyn regarded him curiously, "You speak as though this is the first time you've seen the gravestone."

Ocato looked at the ground as he answered, and his voice was low and quiet: "It is."

Though he could not see the Dunmer, the silence informed him well enough that Oreyn was lost for words. It was some time before he could at last say: "But it's been three weeks-"

"Precisely," his tone was still hushed. Subdued. Masking the undercurrent of bitterness and mourning and guilt stewing beneath the surface, "That's why I had to do it now. I've been waiting and waiting for a moment of free time, but it just hasn't happened. I imagine six months down the line, I'd have been no closer to clearing my schedule. So I'm sorry for dragging you out here at this hour, but there was no other way."

"I thought you'd already mourned for her," the other Elf murmured, "Before the job interviews. One week had already passed by then."

The Chancellor laughed, if it could be called that, for it was a humourless and sour-tasting thing. He fell quiet then, in the minutes that followed, tracing her name over and over until at last, he felt able to speak:

"Do you know, I couldn't even make the funeral?"

There was no response. He knew the man was still there, but evidently he didn't know what to say. But at the moment, all Ocato wanted him to do was listen; it had been so long since he had talked to anyone who wasn't another politician, another slimy sycophant. For the most powerful man in Tamriel, the one in charge, the one calling all the shots and making all the decisions, how long had it been since someone had simply stood there and just honest-to-gods _listened_ to him?

"I can't imagine what her family must think of me," he continued, barely above a whisper as he stared almost hypnotised at the marble lettering, "I tried to get out of work for the day, I really did. I slaved all through the night so that I could go to her funeral and not miss any deadlines. But as soon as I had finished the paperwork, more came flooding in," and then his hands fell down to the soil, beneath which she was buried, "I just couldn't make it, in the end. Maybe I should have gone anyway, and faced the consequences afterwards..."

From his stance behind the kneeling Ocato, Modryn swallowed and shifted uncomfortably. He was wildly out of his depth – his speciality was hitting things with a mace, not being a shoulder to cry on, although Ocato, as far as he could tell, was not actually crying. Amidst his racing thoughts was the recollection of Vilena's tact lessons, in particular her question, _What to do when someone is displaying grief? _His answer of _Tell them to get over themselves_ had earned him a rather sharp smack across the back of his head. It was an accurate metaphor for how perfectly useless he was right now.

"But..." he began tentatively, being very, very careful of his words lest he sign his own death warrant, "You had responsibilities you couldn't ignore. Had attending the funeral been an _option_, you may well have taken it, but that wasn't the case."

Ocato was silent. Modryn shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and continued apprehensively:

"Sometimes, on Guild contracts... we've been overwhelmed by our opponents. We've had to retreat with whatever people we've had left," his gaze dropped to the floor, voice quietened, as if in remembrance, "That means leaving others behind, the slow and the injured, to die. It's strictly a last resort, but it's happened." He himself had been in that awful position of group leader, forced to abandon what he considered family. But he had refused to lose himself to the guilt, because what he had done had been absolutely necessary. "Sometimes, duty outweighs personal needs. That's just the way it is."

He was again met with silence. But he had no more words to say, so he too held his tongue. The lack of response probably meant Ocato disagreed with him, meaning he was going to get at best an icy glare, at worst, a sudden job redundancy. A pity, he was just starting to get used to his new room-

"... Yes. Yes, you're right."

-Oh. He watched the Chancellor get to his feet, the weariness lingering in his movements; but when he straightened up, his shoulders were squared, and his head was held high. Had he not witnessed it himself, Modryn would never have believed Ocato to be exhausted and grieving but moments before. It was quite extraordinary.

"The High Chancellor is the backbone of the Empire. That's not a responsibility I can just shirk off," if he moved slightly he could see the Altmer's face, etched from grim determination, "That means over-ruling my personal life. I understand now."

"Now wait – that's not quite what I meant," Oreyn corrected him quickly before the man could get any ideas in his head, "You're a living being, not a machine. You still have to eat and sleep and see that your social needs are fulfilled. If that means visiting Evangeline from time to time, we can do that."

Ocato turned, frowning, "Another late-night trip? I don't have time during the day."

"I'll _make_ time. Leave it to me," he had nothing if not confidence in his abilities, and he already knew how he might free up some space in Ocato's schedule, "Let's go back to the palace, we could both be doing with some sleep. Next time we'll come when the sun is out, alright?"

With the other's nod of approval, they both headed back, walking side by side towards White Gold Tower. As an afterthought, Modryn spoke: "Ocato?"

"Mm?"

"I thought you said you didn't feel regret any more?"

"Indeed I did. And that's mostly true," he aimed for a smile, but didn't quite make it all the way, "But all politicians are liars. Remember that."


	4. Chapter 4

Just so you know, I plan to give all of the Inner Council OCs attention, not just Aluin. He'll be the most prominent, but the others will get their own backstory too.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Four**

Ocato blinked; "Now?"

"Why not?" Modryn shrugged, "It's a nice day outside, not too busy. I'll fend off any journalists we meet."

"But...I have paperwork-"

"Oh, someone spilt ink all over it. The scribes are re-writing it as we speak; they won't be done for a while."

"-And a briefing with the Minister for Health and Safety-"

"He tripped and fell into a wall. Broke his nose. I saw the whole thing, tragic stuff."

"-And the woman from the Office of Commerce wanted to talk to me-"

"She woke up with her face painted bright red – er, so I've heard. I imagine she's still trying to scrub it off. So that leaves you about... two hours free."

"How marvellously convenient," Ocato remarked dryly, "And I don't suppose you had anything to do with this string of coincidences, did you?"

"Absolutely not. And since each event _was_ completely and definitely a coincidence, there's no string to attach them to each other."

"Mm. You have red paint under your fingernails, by the way."

"That is... also a coincidence," Modryn answered not-so-cleverly, crossing his arms so any incrimination was no longer visible, "And you should know, if you hear any reports of me leaving the office of Commerce early this morning, _that's_ a coincidence as well."

"Ah, blatant denial... you know, you should go into politics."

Oreyn grimaced; "No thank you."

"Those words are more sensible than you realise," murmured the High Chancellor, "Well, since that series of utterly unrelated events leaves me with a few hours of freedom, I believe I shall visit Evangeline."

"I _said_ that five minutes ago. You're stealing my ideas now?"

"Indeed. It's what we bureaucrats do best," was the light-hearted, almost _teasing_ reply. It was enough to give Modryn pause, even as the man he was supposed to be guarding began his descent down White Gold Tower.

He'd heard plenty of things about Ocato prior to working for him – that he was serious, straight-laced, sharp-tongued, strong-willed. That he was prim and proper, power-hungry, the perfect man to lead the Empire, and yet also the tyrant that would run it into the ground. But for all the contrasting thoughts and opinions, he'd never heard him described as _playful_.

Even if he had, he wouldn't have believed it; everyone knew the people in charge had no sense of humour. But he had seen it first-hand, and heard it in Ocato's mentions of his past: the man had a mischievous side. He laughed and grieved and sighed and snapped just like any other person. There was so much _more_ to him than that title he carried about like the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Modryn," he heard Ocato call from the stairs when he realised his guard was missing, "Hurry up, we only have so long."

"Just a second." He shook his head, and with it shook the thoughts away. If there was one thing he had learned _from_ Ocato and not _about_ him, it was that there was not enough time in the day to waste with idle thoughts.

* * *

He rather liked Modryn Oreyn.

It was the sense of humour that cinched it. He could _admire_ Oreyn for his fighting prowess, his vigilance and self-discipline, his commitment to his work. But the reason he honest-to-gods just _liked_ the man was because underneath all those layers of stern-faced seriousness, Modryn was actually quite funny.

Painting the Administrator for Imperial Commerce bright red, for instance. That was _magnificent_.

He might have lamented not befriending Modryn sooner, but he already knew they would never have met, were it not for the exceptional circumstances. For all the social gatherings Ocato attended, or had to attend, he only ever came across a certain _genre_ of people: nobility, bureaucracy, the powerful and the power-lusting. Modryn was clearly none of these, and he handled the finer points of etiquette with all the grace of a mudcrab. It was a wonder how they got along, wildly different as they were, but they had just enough in common to be...

... Friends?

It was an odd word, even if he merely thought it instead of speaking it aloud. It had been so long since he could genuinely call someone that; he had _friends_, the word used in politics that loosely translated to: 'allies, but liable to stab you in the back'. But no, no-one truly deserving of that moniker since... well...

"Evangeline," he murmured, kneeling before her resting place once more. It was sunny now, the blue sky unmarred by clouds, and amidst the vibrant grass the grave seemed less desolate than last time. He had no flowers with him but for the morning glory he'd plucked on the way over. He laid it on top of the stone, like an offering.

He felt more numb than anything else, strangely. Whether the grief hadn't kicked in yet, or he'd used it all up in his previous visit, he didn't know. It struck him that he should have been crying, at least, even though he hadn't cried in... well, _ever._ But here and now, staring at the grave of one of his dearest friends, he had to wonder if his lack of tears was a sign of strength, or a realisation of his own callousness.

No... no, that was not the case. He might have looked unaffected to anyone else, but he _had_ mourned her, albeit silently. Were he heartless, he would not have almost broken down during his last visit, in the middle of the night and with a bewildered Dunmer in tow.

He was rather glad Oreyn had been there, sentimentally awkward as the man was. He had not offered a sympathetic ear, but that was for the best; sympathy was a gentle yet lengthy way to heal, and a process he just didn't have time for, not when there was work to get on with. What Modryn had done – essentially picked him up, dusted him off, and told him to march onwards – was the shorter, sharper solution. It seemed to have worked, at any rate.

"Ah – excuse me," he shifted slightly. Evidently a journalist had finally summoned the courage to approach Modryn, despite his intimidating appearance. Ocato did not turn around, but listened in curiously: "I need to get by."

Modryn's voice was so stern, he was certain the reporter flinched, "And why is that?"

"Well, I need to talk to the High Chancellor-"

"You can't. He's busy."

"It's just a few quick questions, it won't take much time-"

"He's _busy._"

"But I – Mr. Chancellor?" the journalist quickly realised he would not be getting past, and instead opted to call over the bodyguard's shoulder, "Might I ask you a question or two?"

"What did I just say?" Modryn's voice interrupted before Ocato could even turn his head, "Leave him be. Have you no respect?"

"It's _important_. Chancellor Ocato? Hello?"

Damned journalists. No wonder the Black Horse Courier was the best known paper in Cyrodil, both their messengers and reporters knew how to shout the loudest. He closed his eyes, listening to Oreyn argue with the man. Truly nightmarish creatures... it was probably ill luck to say it, but he would take another Dagon invasion over a swarm of journalists any day.

An undignified shriek caught his attention again, followed by what sounded like someone being bodily thrown several feet away. And then, Modryn's voice:

"Sod off, he's _mourning!_"

He managed to suppress his laughter into a smirk, and the faint shaking of his shoulders. What would those numerous nobles and stuffy politicians say, if they saw him snickering like an adolescent? He could well imagine their scorn at him and the company he kept, but it didn't matter. Modryn was an excellent guard, and one of the very, very few people that would go to such lengths to ensure Ocato's well-being. He was far better off now than he would have been under the watch of a faceless Legion soldier.

And then, as he glanced at the grave in front of him again, he realised – he didn't feel sad anymore. He had needed to mourn for so long, the tensions building and building and always threatening to overwhelm him, but he suddenly felt rather better. She was gone, and he would always miss her, but the grief had passed, as though carried away on the day's breeze.

He had thought about nothing but Evangeline for a month now. Perhaps... it was finally time to let her rest.

* * *

"Ocato."

He froze mid-walk, instantly recognising that quiet murmur of a voice. He turned around, and sure enough, one of the eight headache-inducing people who made up the Inner Council. And he already knew precisely why he was here.

"Aluin," he greeted formally, masking his suspicion. After all, the other Altmer normally kept to himself, busied with his constant journeys between Cyrodil and the Summerset Isles, and only contacted Ocato when it was strictly necessary. Even then he used a messenger, and even _then_ he did not entrust the task to anyone but his own summoned creature, cautious as he was.

"Do you have a moment?" Aluin asked, though Ocato had the distinct impression that he wasn't really _asking_, as such, "I wish to talk to you."

He shifted a little, "I'm rather busy, I'm afraid. It'll have to wait for another time-"

"Oh no," his fellow High Elf interrupted effortlessly, "Your schedule is quite clear. I've ensured we won't be disturbed."

Just as he thought, he had no choice in the matter. "Very well," he sighed, "What did you want to talk about?"

"Nothing while standing in the middle of a corridor. Come, we'll have tea together."

However grudgingly, Ocato allowed himself to be led to a room not far away. It was unoccupied – surprising, as no room in the palace went unused – and had a fine porcelain tea set placed on the table, with a chair either side. All very convenient; or more likely, very deliberate.

"Have a seat. You take two sugars in your tea, correct?"

"Yes," Ocato replied automatically, and only realised several seconds later that he'd never actually told Aluin that information before now. It was maybe better not to question it.

Aluin, meanwhile, had occupied himself with the dainty teapot and equally dainty cups. His movements carried a ritualistic preciseness, the sort of formality that came straight from Alinor, the capital city of the Summerset Isles. Ocato was just graceful enough to be the envy of the human folk around him; Aluin had so _much_ of the stuff that he seemed practically alien to an outside eye.

"The palace is certainly busy," the other mer spoke quietly, pouring his own tea sans-sugar, and sitting opposite the Chancellor, "It's still hard to believe you live here, on top of all that noise and movement. I don't know how you stand the flurry."

_Small talk._ It wore on his patience now more than ever, since he always had a hundred other things he could be doing. "You get used to it soon enough. Look, Aluin-"

"How's the new bodyguard?" he was cut off before he could demand Aluin get to the point, "It's been almost a month since Miss Beanique's passing, has it not?"

At her name, Ocato fell silent at once; "... Yes. Yes it has," he replied quietly.

"And the new one?" Aluin took a sip of his tea, deceptively casual, "Are they to your liking?"

He could have been discussing furniture. Ocato frowned, "Yes. He is."

"You haven't even told the Inner Council his name yet."

"I didn't think it was relevant."

"Hm. Perhaps you could tell me now."

That hadn't been a question. Ocato shifted, and cleared his throat. "Modryn Oreyn."

"Oh," Aluin said with not a hint of reaction – but Ocato had learned by now that Aluin was particularly good at giving nothing away. He had to admit, the nonchalant tone would have fooled just about anyone else; "A Dunmer. How interesting."

Except Ocato knew that _How interesting_ usually translated to _I don't approve_. Though he oftenmost agreed with the other Elf's decisions and opinions, Aluin had one key flaw – he was a Summerset Altmer through and through. Which unfortunately entailed a touch of xenophobia, even if he was no longer in his homeland.

"I interviewed all of the possible candidates myself," Ocato answered, determined to stick by his decision, "And he was the best choice. He makes a fine bodyguard."

Aluin's response was to sip his tea, and he did not answer until he had placed the cup back on its saucer. "What was he before, then? A mage?"

"No, Fighter's Guild. Second-in-command."

"Hm. Doesn't the Council rely on the Imperial Legion, usually?"

"The Legion may be the more _proper_ choice, that does not always make it the best. Oreyn is cautious, and vigilant. Ideal, in light of the break-in."

"If you feel he can be trusted," Aluin murmured, and did not say another word on the subject.

"... Aluin," he said after five silent minutes, "Why did you bring me here, really? What did you want to talk about?"

Mid-way to raising the cup to his lips, the mer paused, before saying: "Come now, Ocato. Surely you already know the answer to that."

He almost – _almost_ – groaned in sheer annoyance; "Let me guess. This homosexuality business again?"

"It's been a month, and you still haven't reached a decision."

"There's no decision to be made!" Ocato insisted with such exasperation that Aluin arched one eyebrow. "Why does this keep coming up? We have a fine, isn't that enough?"

"It isn't stopping it."

"So? Why does it even matter?"

Aluin stopped, and just _looked_ at him. "You truly haven't figured it out, have you?" he questioned softly, "I wondered why you would even hesitate in your decision... I understand now. It hasn't occurred to you yet."

"_What_ hasn't occurred to me?"

"The Altmer, Ocato."

That gave him pause; "... What?"

"Homosexuality is strictly forbidden in the Isles, Chancellor. I'm surprised you did not carry your beliefs over to Cyrodil," and before Ocato could point out that not all High Elves shared the same ideals, Aluin went on: "Regardless of changing attitudes, our courtship rituals remain the same. 'So shall two matched Altmer, male and female, join after vows, and create-"

"-A child of purest blood, so that our master lineage shall continue'," Ocato finished wearily, word-perfect from having the knowledge drilled into his head, as with all Summerset children. "Yes, yes, I know."

"And yet you sound so dismissive. The survival of our race is not something to be taken lightly."

"We're hardly an endangered species-"

"Yes," he was quietly corrected, "We are."

"... Aluin," Ocato shook his head, "There are Altmer all over the place-"

"Half-breeds, Ocato. Some of them aren't even that. Mixed with other mer, or humankind, even the bestial folk. Of all the Altmer in this city, only a handful are pure-blood, and that includes you and I," Aluin told him, with an uncharacteristic sharpness in his voice, most likely brought about by Ocato's attitude towards tradition, "Our numbers are thinning. Each year there are less and less pure Altmer, and why? Because people are ignoring the rituals."

Ocato frowned. He knew Aluin spoke the truth, but even so... "So you would have me enforce them, by banning homosexuality?"

"It needs to be done. If the rituals are not upheld, we will meet the same fate as the Aldmer before us – integrating into the populace until we disappear as a race," warned Aluin, "Allowing the act of homosexuality, or anything that lessens the importance of childbirth, will only worsen things. It cannot take place."

"And what of the other races? They don't have courtship rituals."

"Well they must abide by the laws too, of course. That serves the interests of the Altmer as well," the other told him, "If everyone behaved as though homosexuality were unharmful, even the proudest High Elf would come to believe that also. It is not enough for the ritual laws to exist in the Isles – they must exist worldwide, if we are to save ourselves."

"But-" Ocato stopped, hesitated, and tried again, "Surely only a small percentage of Altmer partake in homosexuality-"

"You would doom your own kind, Ocato?"

His mouth snapped shut at once. What Aluin was doing was entirely unfair, and yet he could not say the mer's argument had no merit. The importance of pure blood had been stressed to him from a very early age, as soon as he was old enough to comprehend the concept. It was not so in Cyrodil, but in the Isles, people clung onto their culture and customs and whatever else made them Altmer as fiercely as they could.

"Do you understand now?" Aluin asked him, his eyes imploring the Chancellor to agree. Golden eyes and golden skin and golden hair – what faced him was the very pinnacle of High Elf, the embodiment of all his race stood to lose, not just aesthetics but mannerisms as well. "_You_ have the power here. _You_ decide what happens to us. It's your duty to make the right choice for us all."

_Sometimes duty outweighs personal needs._

"... I need more time to think about this," he answered at last, and rose from his seat, "I will make a decision, but... don't press me for an answer just yet." And as an afterthought, he added: "Thank you for the tea."

"You haven't touched your tea, Ocato."

"Yes – well – thank you anyway. Excuse me."

He did not delay his departure any further. Aluin watched him over the rim of his teacup, but said nothing more, even when Ocato shut the door, and left him to his solitude.

* * *

"I have not yet made my decision."

Eight stunned faces stared back at him. Even Aluin looked incredulous.

"But... it's been a month," said Carmine, Bosmer and chief spokesperson of allowing homosexuality, "Surely the choice can't be _that_ difficult...?"

"Exactly," nodded the human woman, whose main argument _against_ the act was its disgrace in the eyes of the Nine, "Ocato, you know what you must do. Your neutrality on this subject is starting to worry me."

He frowned at her, "Just what are you insinuating?"

"That you've sat on the fence for too damn long. I want a decision," Marseius Cassius interrupted before his fellow Imperial could give her answer, "The longer we delay the new laws, the more dire our situation becomes. Can you imagine how spineless we look to the other provinces?"

"So are we to appear forceful and offensive, Marseius?" he asked softly.

"To hell with offending people," Marseius declared heatedly, while several of the others winced at his language, "We don't look forceful _enough_, I say. Our Empire wasn't built on compromise, or tolerance of unlawful acts; back then if we didn't like something, we just _changed_ it to suit us. And that kind of strength commands respect."

The Khajiit sat across from him shook her head: "It commands fear, and loathing. Ra'Jani knows."

"Fine, let the homosexuals fear us! Maybe it'll scare them into stopping, that way they won't get thrown in jail."

"_Tyrant!_" Carmine spat, rising to his feet and slamming his hands on the table with enough force to make everyone flinch back, "You'd lock up anyone who disagreed with your opinions. You bring shame on us all."

"Call me what you like, it doesn't change the fact that the majority _agrees_ with me. I'm just the only one brave enough to voice my thoughts," Marseius barked back, "And who do you have on your side – weak-willed liberals? Effeminate pacifists? Joining hands and singing a song doesn't win you _any_ wars, Carmine."

"Please... please stop this," Ocato muttered, his head in his hands, "You've done nothing but argue all month..."

"Yeah, because we're all trying to convince you which side to choose," the Orc councillor pointed out, "You're the only one who can make the choice so, y'know... choose already."

"But I _can't_," Ocato groaned, explaining himself for what felt like the fiftieth time, "How am I to know which is the better choice? This doesn't affect me, it affects the general public-"

"Then perhaps," Aluin interrupted with minimal effort, as per usual, "We should let them decide."

"You mean – of course," said Carmine, and a smile spread slowly across his face, "An open Council session!"

With a sense of resounding dread, Ocato glanced up at the second-floor balcony above the Chambers, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea-"

"That sounds excellent," the Imperial woman declared, assured of victory, "The people of the Empire can have their say, and they shall do so in favour of the Nine."

"You might be surprised..." the Orc commented slyly, sitting back in his chair.

"Ours is a religious city. It is _you_ who will be surprised, if you expect them to applaud ungodly acts."

"Will all of you just stop and _listen_ to me?" Ocato demanded at last, at the end of his tether after a month of dispute, and all over a law he didn't even _want_ to change, "Have you forgotten about the protesters outside? The ones determined to vilify the Elder Council – they're as free to attend the session as anyone else. What's to stop a physical assault, or even an attempted assassination?"

"Then perhaps you should bring that bodyguard of yours along," Aluin suggested nonchalantly, "Let us see him, at long last."

It was a perfectly innocent remark, and yet Ocato couldn't help but detect an underlying motive to the words. Before he could open his mouth to continue protesting, however, Carmine cut in:

"This is to help you make your choice. Of course, if you'd rather it didn't come to that, you could always give us your verdict now."

The Chancellor sighed; "Fine. Since I have no verdict to give, then... I suppose we proceed with the open Council session."

* * *

Once the date and time had been arranged, and the preparations made for notifying the public, Aluin watched Ocato leave the Council Chambers, and not without noticing the tell-tale weary sag to his shoulders. Unfortunate, of course, that it should have come to this, but Ocato had brought it upon himself by not making a decision. Especially when the choice should have been easy.

He was the last to rise from his seat, as always, and did so unhurriedly; a fellow councillor, the Imperial woman, approached him as soon as the Chancellor had departed, and muttered to him under her breath: "I thought you said he would side with us?"

"I miscalculated," he answered coolly. Even his admittance seemed to give nothing away, "I truly did not expect this, Junia. I thought my discussion with him would make him see sense."

"Yet he remains indecisive. What do we do now?"

"We wait until the open Council session. The plight of the public will force him into making a choice."

Junia worried her lower lip, "... And what if they decide against us?"

He raised one elegant eyebrow, "And here I thought you had the utmost confidence in your holy city."

"I _do_, but-" she looked over at her Imperial counterpart, who was currently arguing with Carmine now there was no High Chancellor to stop him, "It's unwise to assume absolute success, as Marseius does. He's so used to getting his way, I don't think he even plans for a possible failure."

"Which makes him a fine morale booster, and a usefully stubborn negotiator," Aluin finished, his voice low and quiet enough that Marseius could not overhear, "But in instances like this, his views are too extreme to gain Ocato's approval. You know as well as I do, he won't win us this fight."

"What about Jelani?" they both watched the Argonian depart the room, so quietly that he almost went unnoticed.

"Hm... I wonder at why he has sided with us, truthfully. He gave _a_ reason, that doesn't make it _the_ reason he opposes legalisation," the High Elf gave as his reply, "Still, his connections make him a valuable ally. I will enlist him to help sway the upcoming session."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the session is open to the public," Aluin remarked casually, gathering his papers, "However... we can still influence which members of the public do and don't hear about it, can't we?"

She looked apprehensive at the suggestion, "Is that... the right thing to do?"

Inwardly, he sighed. Ah, but he had forgotten... humans needed everything explained to them at least twice through. It was a sign he had been in the Imperial City for too long; "Miss Liviana, you are not a simple-minded chapel healer. You understand that morality is not so black and white... often a questionable path must be taken, for the greater good."

"I... I suppose..."

"I thought you might agree," he straightened up, his papers under one arm, and bid her farewell before she could doubt her cause any further, "Good day to you, Junia... and I shall see you at the open session."


	5. Chapter 5

There's an in-joke to Gold Black Red in this one. See if you can spot it :D

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Five**

"What's taking him so long?" Carmine muttered, tapping his fingers impatiently against the table, "I know Orcs show up whenever they _want_ to show up, but this is important. The open session is tomorrow and we need to sort out what we're going to say."

Olivier Régis sat opposite him, fidgeting with the frill on his cuff; "Do you... do you really think the public will want it legalised?"

"If the Imperial City contained nothing but Imperials, I'd say no. But since there's a mix of races and cultures here, we stand a good chance of success. Even so..." he pulled a small notebook from within his coat, "We'll need a persuasive argument. Gods know Aluin will have a speech prepared."

"I thought Marseius was our main opponent?"

Carmine grimaced at the mention of the man, "He's the most strongly opposed, but not the greatest threat. Sure, he can rage incoherently about homosexuality, but Aluin can translate that into something people will actually listen to," the notebook was opened, a quill and ink procured, "So, what should we say? So far I've got freedom of choice, equality for all, modern times calls for modern ideals... what else?"

"Why all these reasons?" Ra'Jani, the Khajiit councillor, cocked her head quizzically; possibly frowning, though it was hard to tell with such feline features, "This one is confused. There are arguments and Ra'Jani does not see the problem."

"Because many believe homosexuality to be unnatural – wrongly, of course," Carmine explained, though also inquired out of curiosity: "I take it the Khajiit don't mind it so much, then?"

"In Elsweyr, it is called 'Two-Moons'," Ra'Jani answered, "Male and female are like sun and moon – opposite, but necessary to create a new day. So when both are the same, and there will be no new day, that is Two-Moons."

"Why not Two-Suns?" Olivier questioned.

She blinked, confused, "We do not have two suns. But we do have two moons in our sky; it is part of nature, see? The Khajiit know this," she paused, "Besides, most Two-Moons takes place at night anyway. Ra'Jani watches the Waterfront, so she knows better than anyone."

At this, the Breton went an interesting shade of white, practically grey given how pale he usually was, "You... you spy on the Waterfront at night?"

"Correct," Ra'Jani gave a toothy grin, "This one thinks... Olivier has a thing for redheads."

"Preposterous! I don't know what you're talking about!" Olivier spluttered indignantly at once, "I've never been down to the Waterfront at night, not once-"

"Alright Olivier, we believe you," Carmine shushed him, though Ra'Jani was still grinning wickedly in the background, "So we're pretty much assured of a Khajiit vote, but it's worth bringing up at the session... what else can we say?"

"Well, we could mention that..." Olivier fidgeted hesitantly, but went ahead: "That it's not the Council's business what people get up to in their private life – not that I have anything to hide!" he added hastily when Ra'Jani's snicker could be heard, "I just – I meant – we _lead_ the citizens of the Empire, that doesn't mean we have the right to control them."

"That's a good point," Carmine nodded, scribbling with his quill. He glanced about for the absent fourth member of their group, "I wish Goran was here. Some Orc insight could be useful."

"We have a starting point, right? Let me see..." Olivier peered at the notebook, only to frown at what he saw, "Carmine, you've just doodled all over the page."

"They are _not_ doodles," Carmine protested heatedly, "These are my notes. Look, there's Two-Moons-" he pointed to two simplistic circles next to each other, "And there's your 'mind your own business argument-" as represented by what looked like a hand making a rude gesture. "It's just my way of remembering things."

"You mean in all those Council meetings, you were sat there drawing the entire time?"

"_Note-taking._"

"But how is anyone else supposed to understand what it all means?"

"Well that's the point, isn't it? No-one can decipher it but me. I've got plans for world domination in here and everything," at Olivier's stricken expression, Carmine said flatly, "That was a joke."

Whatever else the Breton might have had to say was cut off, however, by the arrival of Goran.

Goran gro-Garvan, whom everyone agreed had too many G's in his name, was a highly respected Orc chieftain. He was also a renowned warrior, so when he tried to open the door, he ended up pulling it off its hinges instead. This did not deter him, however, as he hurriedly tossed the door aside and marched into the room, announcing at once: "I think we have a problem."

Carmine had been about to demand why Goran was so late, but it was soon forgotten, "What do you mean?"

"I asked a few of the Orcs if they would be attending the open session tomorrow," Goran told him with a grimace, "And it was the first they'd heard of it. They were never notified. Nor was anyone else in the Waterfront or Market Districts."

"That can't be right, the word should have been spread..." and when it clicked, the Bosmer scowled darkly, "_Aluin._ I might've known he would do something like this."

"Tricky mage," Ra'Jani commented, though there was a certain admiration in her voice, "Clever mage. Clever, wily mage. Would make a good Khajiit."

"If he were a Khajiit, we wouldn't have to worry about him opposing us," Carmine muttered, tucking away the notebook and hopping off his stool. "We need to tell as many people as possible about the session; Goran, notify everyone on the Waterfront. Ra'Jani, convince as many Khajiit as you can to attend. Olivier, you and I will tackle the Market District."

"F-for tomorrow? Is it even possible to spread the word to so many-"

"I'll juggle Skooma to get their attention if I have to," Carmine declared with absolute seriousness, "And we don't have much a choice in the matter. Otherwise the only spectators at the session will be chapel fanatics and staunch conservatives – people who will support Aluin." And with that, he swiftly departed the room, the others in tow.

* * *

"I wish you'd told me sooner," Modryn muttered, "I'd have shaved properly this morning, at least."

"I did mean to bring up the subject, but it kept slipping my mind," Ocato answered, rather frantically smoothing his hair back. It looked almost unnaturally neat, not a strand out of place, "Besides, it doesn't matter if you've a bit of stubble, though the same can't be said for me. The public will be paying attention to the debate, not the security."

"I suppose," though he still glanced at himself in the mirror, and self-consciously thumbed a bristly cheek, "So what's being discussed?"

"Homosexuality."

He stopped at once, stubble forgotten, "Homosexuality?"

"That's what I said, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but why is _that_ being discussed, of all things?"

"I've asked that plenty of times myself," the Chancellor grumbled lowly, but explained: "The Inner Council, which deals with the affairs of Cyrodil, wants the laws changed. But they're evenly divided – four want the penalties toughened, four want the fine dropped altogether – so the final vote falls to me," he sighed, left his hair alone, and instead began meticulously patting and straightening his silk robes, "But because I haven't come to a decision, they've called for an open session so the public can have their say."

"So the people choose the outcome?"

"Mm, yes and no. If they wanted the penalties toughened, I could still go ahead and legalise it anyway, but I'd lose a lot of respect and popularity in the process. So it usually means siding with whatever they say, but not always."

Oreyn nodded, though frowned as his employer pulled a little too hard on one of his sleeves, "Ocato, you'll end up tearing your robes."

"I know, I'm just – anxious. Open Council sessions are a last resort, and with good reason. They can be unpredictable, dangerous even," he finally left his sleeve alone and sighed, hands dropping into his lap, "I suppose I should get used to it, since it'll be happening more often from now on. I don't have an Emperor to confer with anymore."

"It'll be alright," Modryn said a tad gruffly, as close to kind reassurance as he could get. Had he not been so harried, a fond smile would have made its way onto Ocato's lips. "But if you don't mind me asking..."

"... Am I for or against?" the Altmer guessed, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "Neither. As I keep _telling _people, but they won't listen. Perhaps I should have a stronger opinion, but gods help me, I just don't care," he glanced at Oreyn's Dunmer features reflected in the mirror, a thought occurring to him: "What about Morrowind? What's the public stance on homosexuality there?"

"I couldn't tell you. I haven't set foot there for years," Modryn answered, careful to give away nothing more than that, "You don't really want to follow their example anyway. It took them long enough to abolish slavery."

"Touché," Ocato muttered, "What about _your_ stance, then?"

Modryn looked puzzled, "My stance? Why do you want to know?"

And at that, _Ocato_ looked puzzled – it was an odd thing to say, after all, "Why wouldn't I want to know? I value your opinion as much as anyone else's."

"I just thought I'd be kept out of the politics. I'm a warrior, not a diplomat."

"I've spent the past month talking to diplomats, and look where that got me. A warrior's opinion would be a refreshing change," the Chancellor told him, "Or are you as apathetic as I am?"

The bodyguard shrugged, "I don't see what difference it makes, myself. I've known Guild members who preferred other men, and it made them no less competent in a fight. I mean, if you work in administration, and also happen to swing that way, it doesn't mean you're having sex with the inkwells, does it?"

A grin twitched at the corners of Ocato's mouth; "Not with the Minister for Health and Safety prowling about, at any rate."

Modryn too wore a sly smile, "Has his nose healed up yet, by the way?"

"Enough to give me a long lecture on how he'd been right about the floorboards all along. But back on topic, there _is_ a common sense to what you say. It's the person that matters, not the preference," he paused, and realised what he'd just uttered, "That sounds much like something Carmine would say... I must lean more towards wanting it legalised, then."

"Ah-ha, so now you know which side to take at the session."

"But you forget, it's an _open_ session. If the public disagrees with me, I'll have to toughen up the penalties after all."

"You'd do that? Even though you know it's the wrong choice?"

"Right and wrong are interchangeable in politics. There's been plenty of things I've done and said that I didn't agree with."

"Why do or say them, then?" the warrior asked, almost demanded, "I don't see why it should be so difficult. Honesty may be blunt, and it may not always get you popularity, but it's still the better way to live."

"For one person, yes. For someone leading the Empire? No," Ocato was quick to retort, "I may be in charge, but the citizens are the ones with the true power, and I have to go with the majority vote. If I don't – there's political uprisings, provinces falling out with each other, riots in the street, assassination attempts – do you understand?" he stopped, taking a moment to calm himself before the subject got too heated. Oreyn was really the last person he wanted to argue with over this, "It's not so straight-forward. Even when I was Arch-Mage, I had to fight tooth and nail to get physical discipline abolished. Even though I was in charge, I couldn't just make it so."

"But you still managed it, right? And that wasn't a majority opinion."

Ocato sighed, "Do you know how I did it, in the end?" when Modryn shook his head, he continued, "Emperor Uriel heard about my plight, and took my side. And of course, as soon as the _Emperor_ agreed with me, so did everyone else. The law passed without a hitch," he looked somewhat sour, "_Emperors_ have the power to do and say as they wish. _Emperors_ can pass a law of their choosing on a whim. Not High Chancellors."

Looking as envious as he did, Modryn could see why some accused Ocato of being a usurper, of wanting to take the crown for himself. And yet he also knew the man had no delusions of grandeur, given how he spoke of the citizens. If Ocato truly wanted to be Emperor, he would have already snatched the position by now, and used that absolute power to silence any opposition.

"I suppose... you may be right," he conceded, albeit grudgingly, "I don't know enough of politics to make a fair judgement anyway. Better off staying out of it, really," he paused, "But if you do end up outlawing homosexuality because of the majority vote... I won't hold it against you."

Ocato blinked, surprised. Those were not words he was accustomed to hearing, not when he was almost always to blame for something or another. He _would_ be blamed over this law, no matter which side he chose, making it a relatively no-win situation for him. But if Modryn would not fault him for his decision, it made the situation seem a little less grim. "Well... thank you. I would appreciate that."

"No need to sound so formal," the Dunmer admonished lightly. Spotting that the back of Ocato's collar was askew, he carefully folded it upwards as it should have been, "We're friends, aren't we?"

For the first time in what felt like an aeon, the Chancellor relaxed, "Yes. We are."

* * *

"Aluin," Junia whispered frantically, approaching the mer as he took his seat in the Council Chambers, the second-floor balcony above him slowly filling with spectators, "_Aluin._ We have a problem."

"Oh?" whether he had misread the panic in her voice or simply chosen to ignore it, he did not so much as blink at the words. Nor did he ask what the problem _was_, but simply left an expectant silence for Junia to fill.

"Carmine found out about the plan to influence the open session."

Again, impassiveness. He gave no more reaction than a perfectly-arched brow and a quiet murmur: "Did he now?"

"The Waterfront and Market Districts were notified. He has twenty supporters on the balcony."

"And how many do we have?"

"Twenty."

_That_ got a reaction, at last. His eyes widened but a fraction, but it was enough, and Junia felt the dread course through her just as he did, "So we're evenly divided. That means the session won't make up Ocato's mind for him."

"Can... can you talk to him again? He listens to you, you might be able to-"

"No," Aluin interrupted at once, "The open session regulations specifically state that I can't attempt personal persuasion. All I can do is present my arguments to the public and let them pass their judgement," he glanced up at the people on the balcony, among which were an unusually high number of Khajiit, "I doubt anything could change the minds of Carmine's supporters."

She worried her lower lip, "So what do we do?"

"... Leave it to me," he sighed at last, "I can't _directly_ influence Ocato during the session, but every rule has its loophole."

"We can still win, then?"

"We shall see," Aluin said softly, silencing as Carmine entered the room. The Bosmer made sure to glare at him fiercely as he walked over, maintaining eye contact even as he took his seat. Aluin stared back, unblinking, until both were distracted by the arrival of the High Chancellor.

"There he is- by the Nine," Junia inhaled sharply at the person who followed him in, "What _is_ that?"

He too was surprised at what he saw, though he hid it much better than his associate; "Surely you've seen a Dunmer before, Junia?"

"Yes, but-" she descended slowly in her seat next to Aluin, "Just look at the state of him... what was Ocato thinking, hiring someone like that?"

He had to agree, though he did not voice it. From the way Ocato had spoken of the man, he had expected... well, not _that_. Someone who bothered to shave properly at least, since he could see the roughness of the Elf's face from here. And the _hair_... the Mohawk hailed from the ashland tribes of Morrowind if he recalled correctly, signifying the way of the warrior. But in more recent times, it had gained an association with unsavoury types, thuggish rebels and cut-throat bandits. It was certainly inappropriate for the bodyguard of a High Chancellor.

He wasn't the only one staring; even Carmine and his ilk looked outright astonished in the Chancellor's choice of security. Said security had also noticed he was being gaped at, and defensively crossed his arms over his chest, over scratched and scruffy iron armour. Ocato cleared his throat loudly, snatching everyone's attention away as he seated himself between the two opposing sides.

"As High Chancellor, I welcome the members of the public, and thank them for attending this open Council session," he began, voice travelling easily up to the second floor, "The issue up for debate is homosexuality. Speaking in favour of legalisation – Carmine, would you like to begin?"

"Yes, I-" the Wood Elf stopped to glance again at the bodyguard stood by the entrance doors – and in that moment, Aluin knew Carmine would not win today. Even when he coughed and continued speaking, his words were distracted, unclear: "I think it should be legal. Because people should, er, should be allowed to... to..."

"Carmine," Ocato muttered when the mer went back to staring at Oreyn, "Pay attention."

"I am," Carmine mumbled in reply, still very much fixated on the Dunmer – more specifically, the Dunmer's Mohawk, "How does he get it to stand up like that...?"

"Pay attention to the _meeting_, Carmine, not Modryn's hair."

"What Carmine means to say," Goran gro-Garvan declared, rising from his chair to address the public, "Is that homosexuals should be granted equal rights to the rest of us, because they're really no different-"

"You'd compare the good people of this city to _them?_" someone – evidently on the 'against' side – shouted from the balcony, "Limp-wristed, lilac-wearing queers who run after other men because they're too _inadequate _to please their wives?"

Olivier tugged self-consciously on his silken cravat, mumbling, "What's wrong with lilac...?"

At the decidedly Marseius-like heckle, Carmine finally turned his attention back to the debate: "The few homosexual folk who _are_ married are with a wife only because people like _you_ demand it, demand that they should be something they're not," he argued fiercely, sparking a collective jeer of protest from the opposition in the crowd, "If that social barrier didn't exist, those men would be a lot happier. It's both unfair and hypocritical to call them inadequate when _you_ forced them into that position!"

"First you drift off mid-sentence and now you shout at our dear public," Jelani, the Argonian, spoke up from Aluin's side of the table, "Very unprofessional, Bosmer. I think you are a poor spokesperson for such a delicate matter."

"And I think your reasons for wanting homosexuality banned are awfully suspicious," Carmine shot back, eyes narrowed, "There are no laws against same-gender relationships in Black Marsh. Why have you sided with Aluin, really?"

"A male cannot have hatchlings with another male. This rule applies to everything, no? Even nature agrees."

"And yet your fellow Argonians don't."

"We are in Cyrodil, not Black Marsh," was the smooth reply, "And the people here believe that homosexuality should be banned."

"Not all of us believe that," in the crowd, a Redguard stood up, "I have nothing against homosexuals. So long as they keep their business behind closed doors, we've no reason to discriminate against them."

To which another of the audience spoke: "And what if they don't keep it quiet? This law will let them flaunt their ways. That's not something I want my children to see."

"Why not?" demanded another, "The whole purpose of legalising it is to drop the taboo. Children need to learn there's nothing wrong with it."

"Of course there's something _wrong_ with it-"

Soon enough, the crowd were arguing amongst themselves, and barely paying attention to the Inner Council's additions to either side – Marseius and Carmine being the loudest. Aluin spared a glance towards Ocato, who was rubbing his eyes tiredly. It spoke volumes about his stress, since Ocato liked to maintain a pristine, unaffected front before the public eye.

Without attracting too much attention, Aluin reached for his quill, visiting the inkwell before he took it to the page. Nonchalantly, he looped the words large across the parchment; gibberish to most, but in fact a now-archaic form of Elven he knew Ocato would have studied in the Summerset Isles. He placed the quill aside with a resounding click that caught Ocato's attention and watched from his peripheral vision as the Chancellor's eyes flicked from pen to page. It was but two words, but it was enough to make the man visibly tense:

_The Altmer._

And then Ocato glanced up – looking, Aluin knew, at the High Elf that had been very deliberately placed in the crowd to argue against Carmine's plight. He did not miss the slow, weary exhale from the Chancellor thereafter.

"-Marriage isn't just to create children," someone above was saying, "You marry for love, and happiness. They feel that just as we do."

"And what about other things? A man is supposed to find a wife. It's his duty to..."

_Duty._ That was what it came down to. The rest of the sentence melted away until only that word, that concept, remained. Ocato was staring impassively at the patch of table before him. Only Aluin truly knew what that meant.

"So what would you do then, to stop homosexuality?"

"Forbid it completely!" Marseius was heard to shout above the roar of the heated crowd, "No warning, straight to prison! Get the death penalty in, that would soon stop them."

"What, so our solution is to just kill everything we don't like?"

"Why not? It worked back in Tiber Septim's day!"

"Everyone... everyone!" Chancellor Ocato said at last, trying to bring order to the anarchic crowd. And failing, since it took several tries and the eventual use of a blindingly bright light spell to hush them up, "We have argued long enough. I need your verdict... how many people are in favour of legalisation?"

As Aluin had predicted, exactly twenty people raised their hand. So no-one's opinion had been changed by the debate.

"And how many are against?" the remaining twenty raised their hands, "... Evenly divided. Wonderful."

"Have you reached a decision, Chancellor?" Aluin asked softly, fingers lightly tracing over the words he had written earlier, "Or perhaps you'd like more time to consider?"

"Yes... more time, I think," the other Altmer nodded, a certain tiredness to the motion, "Very well, I hereby declare this Council session concluded. Thank you all for your input."

A few protests of: "But no decision was reached!" followed as Ocato rose from his chair, and departed the Chambers. The Dunmer bodyguard immediately moved to escort him, the words _Are you alright?_ on his lips just before they passed through the doors. He didn't see the answer.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six, and it's about time we kicked the plotline into motion.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Six**

Modryn placed the plate of sweetroll on the desk gently, careful to make as little noise as possible; Ocato looked about ready to set fire to whatever worsened his headache, and while as a Dunmer Modryn was mostly inflammable, it was still an outcome he wanted to avoid. The sweetroll smelled divine, wisps of heat still curling from the spongy surface, the glaze of honey so appetising it was practically indecent. And yet Ocato did not even glance at it, still hunched over and massaging slow circles into his temples.

"Are you alright?" Modryn asked, for the second time since the end of the open session. He half-expected to be given the same answer too.

And, he got it: "Fine."

"Liar," Oreyn muttered, but it did not provoke a protesting reaction, as he had hoped. He tried to re-phrase it: "_Will_ you be alright?"

The Altmer opted for silence rather than deceit. Sighing, Modryn dragged the stool across from the other side of the room and took a seat beside his employer. After that, however, he was at a loss as to what he should do.

He was spared the decision when Ocato at last spoke: "... I hate open Council sessions."

"I can see why," Oreyn agreed, remembering the near-deafening volume of the chaotic session, "Is it always like that?"

"Not always _that_ bad. But the audience seemed to be made up entirely of extremists," there was a low sound, not quite a snort, of disapproval, "And the verdict was evenly divided... I suspect tampering involved."

"Tampering?"

"Hand-picking who would attend the session. Which defeats the purpose, since the spectators are supposed to represent the general public," he paused, eyes snapping open, "... That means another session, doesn't it? Gods, as if I don't have enough grey hair."

Modryn opened his mouth as if to reply, and immediately thought better of it. The solution to this entire mess was to simply take a side, and Ocato already knew he leaned more towards legalisation. But while he wanted to tell Ocato to just hurry up and stop fence-sitting, the Chancellor looked so very tired. The whole world was shouting at him to make a decision; the last thing he needed was Modryn's voice added to the fray.

"You're going to tell me to choose, aren't you?" Ocato's voice interrupted, and with some startlement he realised the Altmer had seen, and correctly interpreted, his troubled frown. Before he could confirm or deny the accusation, however, the man continued: "You know, if it were as easy as that, I would've done it by now."

Keeping his voice cautiously neutral, Modryn said, "What's stopping you?"

"I don't expect you'll understand, but I might as well tell you anyway," Modryn's frown tightened at the snide undercurrent to the words, but he stayed silent. Alas, Ocato was still a High Elf, and there would always be that hint of pomposity his race were so infamous for; "In the Summerset Isles, where I was born and raised, there are very strict rules regarding courtship. One of which is an absolute ban on all homosexual activity.

"It's common knowledge that most Altmer are strictly monogamous; it can take centuries to find an appropriate partner. Even then childbirth is a rarity, and any child that isn't pure-blood Altmer is shunned from our society," Ocato told him quietly, his reverence for such rules evident in his tone, "It's little wonder that our numbers are thinning. The elders residing in the Isles are panicking, and they want me to reinforce the courtship laws by forbidding same-sex relationships."

Naturally, Modryn thought that was ridiculous. He didn't say that out loud, mostly out of respect for Ocato. He had little to no appreciation for culture – not even that of his own people in Morrowind, never mind the elusive and exotic Summerset elves – but evidently these courtship rules held some weight for the man sat beside him, so he kept his tongue in check. Testing the waters, he asked: "And do you... agree with those ideas?"

"Not as much as I used to," the Chancellor shook his head, "I left the Isles young and firmly entrenched in the beliefs of my elders. Time spent in Cyrodil as the other provinces has given me a more worldly view, however. I _know_ there are more important things than pure blood, but..."

"But...?"

"I'm still an Altmer," sighed Ocato, "I may use Imperial pronunciation, and wear Imperial robes, and worship the Imperial version of the gods, but I'm still an Altmer. And I can't just pass a law that may very well doom my own race," he looked at Modryn imploringly, "Now do you understand?"

In truth, he didn't. What with leaving Morrowind as soon as he was physically and financially able, race meant very little to him; he felt no kinship with other Dunmer, and the only thing he'd taken from his homeland was the Mohawk hairstyle favoured by the ashland tribes.

He tried to think of it in another light – the age-old rivalry between combat and magic. He was not as biased against it as some other Fighters Guild members, could freely admit that it was in many ways more powerful than simple steel. But were he ordered to choose between arcane or martial arts, he would always pick the latter. Magic was stronger, could be used at both long and short range, did not require the use of weighty weapons and armour, and was useful outside of battle. But he still favoured a no-frills fight, and why? Because he was a warrior. Unadorned combat was simply... what he did. What he _was._

And when he compared that to Ocato's heritage, everything made a great deal more sense. The High Elf rules were petty and impractical, and the man himself knew that, but he could not simply shun them. Ocato was an Altmer. Modryn was a warrior.

"I get it," he nodded, and thankfully had not been lost in his thoughts long enough for Ocato to grow uneasy at the silence. "But what are you going to do? Will you ban it?"

"I don't know," the Chancellor went back to rubbing his temples to ease the headache, "As a person I see no harm in legalising it. As a High Elf I want it outlawed. As a Chancellor I have to do right by _everyone_, not just my own race. The only thing I can do is keep delaying the decision until I truly know what I want... or at least what the people of Cyrodil want, when certain Inner Council members stop influencing the votes."

A silence fell between the two men, Ocato staring glumly at his desk and Modryn watching the gradually-thinning coils of steam from the untouched sweetroll. He wanted to say _something_ to lighten the atmosphere, but how did one go about cheering up the most important man in the world? As the minutes ticked by, Modryn decided to give it a go anyway: "Ocato?"

"What is it?"

"Your hair isn't grey."

The mer blinked, confused, "What?"

"You said earlier, 'as if I don't have enough grey hair'," he elaborated, feeling more than a little foolish, but it was an expense worth paying if it helped Ocato out, "Just a few strands here and there. Not like mine," Modryn's hair, while still blue-black in colour, was visibly threaded with silver, "The colour will be all gone in a few years. I'm hoping it'll make me look dashing, but honestly, I think I'll just look like a wrinkly old man."

To his triumph, Ocato's lips quirked up into a half-smile, "An old man with a Mohawk."

"Hey, don't knock the Mohawk. It disguises my receding hairline."

The Chancellor _did_ smile then, "You're not that wrinkly, you know. I'm much worse off than you."

"Oh give over! There's not a line on you."

"There are, all around my eyes. Time has been terribly unkind on me."

"Look around _my_ eyes. I'm far more withered than you are."

"You are not! It's all the anti-ageing cream plastered on me. As soon as it wears off I'll look like tree bark."

"I don't believe you for a second. Look how saggy I am, my skin's held on by hopes and dreams. Give it a month and my jawline will be somewhere around my knees."

The High Elf snickered, then sniggered, then all-out laughed until he was wiping away tears of mirth. There were indeed lines around his eyes, but those etched from happiness, not stress, and they actually made the man look _younger._ His frown lines, on the other hand, which accentuated his weariness, vanished from his skin. Modryn leaned back on his stool, grinning at his handiwork.

"Gods above..." Ocato said at last, still breathless from his laughter, "I wish we had met sooner. I could've used that sense of humour around the time Emperor Uriel died."

Oreyn's grin softened into a smile, and his tone was earnest; "Better late than never."

* * *

Modryn stared hard at the blank canvas before him, a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other, ready to begin. Unfortunately he was not an artistic man, and the only thing he could think to draw was a stick-figure.

He had brought his painting equipment all the way from Chorrol, but his last month or so had been busy enough just settling in, learning his way around White Gold Tower, and befriending his employer. Ocato had told him to take a few hours off, so here he was catching up on his free time, painting. Or at least trying to.

Selecting the purple paint, he tentatively dabbed his brush against the pristine white canvas. But his hands were made for holding a mace; the line of paint was unsteady and uneven, veering off of its own accord to turn his intended circle into the shape of a potato. While he could perfectly visualise a straight line, his fingers apparently could not, preferring a wobbly approach. The end result was a badly-drawn stick-man that a child would have criticised, and in all honesty he thought the canvas had looked better with nothing on it.

"Modryn?"

He glanced up to see none other than the High Chancellor at the door, peering curiously into the makeshift studio. His own room adjoining Ocato's was far too small to set up an easel and canvas, so he had converted a mostly-empty broom cupboard to his purposes. Still cramped, but better than risking paint-splatter all over his furniture.

"Yes? What is it?" he deposited his paintbrush in the nearby water pot, staining the liquid purple as he did, "Trouble while I was on my break?"

"No, nothing like that – may I come in?" at Oreyn's nod, the man let himself into the room, carefully avoiding a collision with the brooms propped up against the wall, and shut the door behind him, "I just wanted to see how you were getting on. And, ah, inadvertently give myself a break as well."

A smile tugged at Modryn's lips, "You, _voluntarily_ taking a break? The paperwork must be getting bad."

"Or maybe I'm just taking your advice for once," Ocato pointed out, though added quietly: "Well, it's... not the paperwork as much as the others on the Inner Council. They've been sending me endless notes since that open session, trying to win my vote."

The smile dissolved into a frown; hadn't Ocato stated that he needed more time to mull things over? "How many notes?"

The Altmer did not reply, but instead gave a slightly wistful not-quite-smile, and turned out his pockets. A multitude of parchment scraps, most of them crumpled in evident frustration, came spilling out, scattering across the floor. Modryn's eyes widened – there had to be over a hundred of them at least.

"Snippets of religious scripture from Junia, slander from Marseius, disapproval from Aluin, and even Jelani sent me a few reminders on who to side with," Ocato explained as the other elf plucked a note from the floor, smoothing it between his fingers, "That sort of nagging would drive me to the opposition, but they're just as bad. I've been preached at courtesy of Carmine so many times today I'll need a scrubbing brush to wash the guilt away. Then there's not-so-subtle hints from Ra'Jani, the notes Goran has somehow managed to hide everywhere, and while Olivier had the decency to actually ask me politely, it's still annoying."

"Some of these are almost threatening..." Modryn murmured, looking at notes that insinuated Ocato as an amoral degenerate or a bitter-hearted oppressor, depending on who had written it. Both sides were just as quick to employ bullying tactics. "Are they even _allowed_ to do this? Aren't you in charge?"

"I am, yes."

"Then why haven't you fired them yet? This is no way to talk to a superior."

"If I fired them then who would help me run Cyrodil?" the Chancellor said, still with that same half-smile that didn't match the tiredness in his eyes. "Without Marseius, the Imperial Legion would fall into disarray. Without Jelani, all economy would grind to a halt. Aluin and Goran handle trade while Carmine works tirelessly to enforce civil rights and fair wages for all workers. Olivier maintains the city aesthetics, Junia oversees the chapels, and Ra'Jani manages the census and written records," he sighed and shook his head, "Even if they're constantly at each other's throats, their combined efforts are the reason the Empire is still running, albeit not entirely smoothly at the moment. I need them on the Council, and unfortunately they _know_ that, which is why they get away with disrespect from time to time."

"... I suppose," Modryn grumbled, though still not entirely satisfied. If anyone in the Fighters Guild tried to insult or undermine him he could just demote them a rank, but it wasn't so simple when it came to politics.

"Anyway, enough talk of the Inner Council, I came here to get _away_ from that after all," Ocato declared, moving across the room towards the Dunmer, "Are you painting? I hadn't pegged you as an artist."

"Well I'm not-" he suppressed a wince as Ocato saw his pitiful attempt at art, "... As you can see," he muttered, embarrassed.

"Ah, it's, um... very nice," the Chancellor – the _liar_, Modryn thought sourly to himself – squinted at the canvas, "... What is it, precisely?"

"A stick-figure, With a... thing," in all the political talk he'd forgotten what he'd been thinking as he painted, and dimly realised _he_ couldn't make out what it was either, "A sword, I think. Or he might be pointing at somethi- are you laughing?"

"What?" the High Elf, who had definitely been laughing, immediately put on his most serious face, "No, no. Of course not."

"You fibber, I can see your lips twitching," Modryn accused, in a tone just a little _too_ offended to be entirely genuine, "Oh, so that's how it is. We'll see about that," he picked up his paintbrush again.

Ocato looked bemused, "What are you doing?"

"I'm finishing the painting. Our hero, Sir Purple Mcstickman-" he pointedly ignored the snicker from the man beside him, "-Is now holding a sword and chasing-" he switched colours and swiftly painted a yellow-faced and red-bodied stick-figure next to his first drawing, "-A certain High Chancellor, to chop him into itty bitty pieces."

When he was quite done laughing, Ocato picked up a second paintbrush lying dormant beside canvas, and before Modryn could say anything, dabbed a blue glow around the crude avatar of himself; "The Chancellor has just cast a fortify speed spell and dashed away from Sir Purple."

Indignantly, Modryn mixed the red on his brush with black and added a rough scribble of angry faces to the scene, "The Chancellor goes so fast he runs into a group of dremora."

With the same blue, Ocato drew a jagged zigzag line, "The Chancellor casts shock at the dremora and kills them all."

"A cliffracer swoops down and starts attacking him," this was accompanied by a somewhat lopsided illustration as Modryn leaned over to Ocato's side of the canvas.

"What, we're in Morrowind now?"

"I never said we weren't. Here, I'll draw Red Mountain in the background. Also, Sir Purple catches up to the Chancellor."

"Sir Purple is out of breath from running because he's unhealthy..."

"He is _not_ unhealthy-"

This continued for about twenty more minutes, and the canvas was slowly cluttered up with their on-the-spot story, which included Red Mountain erupting, a crowd of badly-drawn zombies, and eventually the two stick-figure protagonists banding together to defeat the Necromancer that summoned them. In the end, even Modryn had been reduced to all-out laughter, and could barely hold the brush straight as he wrote 'the end' on the last bare patch of canvas.

"Oh my," Ocato set his brush in the water pot, and wiped his eyes with the corner of his sleeve, "I can't believe we just did that."

"I'll bet everyone else wouldn't believe it either," Oreyn looked at the crowded and chaotic picture they had made, "Wow... you're almost as good at painting as I am."

"Oh hush. I never learned to draw, I was too busy studying magic."

"Psh, any excuse."

Ocato gave a soft laugh, then smiled fondly at the picture, "It's magnificent," he declared, "It would sell for millions."

"To someone with more money than sense, maybe."

"Oh, I know plenty of people like that."

"We'll have to paint more of these, then. And put the profits into floorboard regulations to keep the Minister for Health and Safety happy," he rose from his stool, and began packing the painting equipment away, "Next time we'll draw the sequel: Sir Purple and the Chancellor vs. the eight-headed Inner Council dragon."

"That _would_ be a terrifying sight," Ocato murmured, and began to help Modryn tidy up.

* * *

"Aluin." In the elven language, his name emerged a soft and lyrical sound. From Marseius, however, it was as sharp and brusque as the man himself, "The notes aren't working."

Much as he wanted to deliver a withering look and voice to match, Aluin maintained his cool, unaffected tone: "Obviously. And I'm not the only one who sent them, so you can stop glaring at me like it's my fault," he looked around, noting that there were only three of them present, "Where is Jelani?"

"Elsewhere. Said he was busy, that he'd catch up at the next meeting. And back on subject-" the Imperial man crossed his arms and scowled darkly, "You put yourself in charge of our cause, it's up to you to win Ocato's vote. Gods know he isn't going to listen to me or Junia."

"I don't understand," Junia herself looked down at her hands, neatly laid in her lap as she sat, the epitome of perfect posture. Her expression, however, was far from picturesque, troubled and even angry, "Ocato is a man of the Nine. The scriptures specifically say a man should only lie with a woman. How can he just ignore that...?"

Aluin sighed, though the others perhaps did not realise how truly exasperated it was; "With all due respect, Miss Liviana, Ocato is not so religious that he would follow the scriptures to the letter... he seems reluctant to adhere to any pre-existing set of rules," he tapped his fingers against the table before him, though it was only a slight indication of how truly frustrated he was, "In fact, I suspect he is more in favour of legalisation. The only thing stopping him is his Altmer heritage, which I must constantly remind him of."

"He should be thinking about the Empire currently crumbling beneath his feet," Marseius spat, "The Dagon Invasion has not only drained our finances but broken the spirits of our people too. Almost half of the Imperial Legion was wiped out and the rest are thinly spread overseeing repairs and fending off the last of the daedra. All it would take is _one _Province turning against us and the Empire would fall."

"The other Provinces are suffering the aftermath as well, Marseius," Aluin reminded him quietly.

"But we got the brunt of it, and we're the most vulnerable. We can't _afford_ to lose the respect of our neighbours. The Summerset Isles, High Rock, Hammerfell, Skyrim and Morrowind – they _all_ frown upon homosexuality," the man answered fiercely, "I've had words from Legion soldiers outside Cyrodil: _everyone_ is talking about this law change, whispering as to why Ocato won't make a decision, and the longer he delays, the worse it gets. So _by the Nine_, Aluin, tell me what we're going to do about it!"

"Calm yourself," Aluin said sharply, before Marseius could get any more worked up, "Panicking will solve nothing."

"I can't help it, Aluin. My Empire, my national pride is withering away, and all because Ocato would rather side with Carmine and his band of misfits. Including, I might add, that spineless Breton degenerate who solicits prostitutes every other night-"

Junia, who had stayed silent throughout her counterpart's tirade, immediately lifted her head, "He does _what?_"

"You heard. The city watch have reported numerous sightings of him down by the Waterfront at night," Marseius' lips curled in disdain, "The guards can't just raid the place, but everyone knows it's the brothel district. It's obvious what he's there for."

Aluin leaned forwards from his chair, intrigued, "Can you prove it? Have someone follow him, witness him actually approaching a prostitute?"

"It could be arranged. Why?"

"Soliciting is a criminal offence. If we can get him suspended from the Council, if only temporarily, it's one less person on Carmine's team," the Altmer told him, "If you can prove it was a _male_ prostitute, all the better. Homosexuality is still technically illegal, after all."

"We can't just rely on that. Getting him suspended could take months," Junia pointed out, "And if you say Ocato already leans towards legalisation... we need another plan. Something to change his mind."

"I've been considering that. Since the notes didn't work, we'll need to resort to more drastic measures," Aluin laced his fingers together with a thoughtful expression. "I looked at Ocato's schedule – it's mostly meetings with people who've queued up to complain at him. Will the two of you be able to handle that?"

"Not too difficult," Marseius paused, "How did you get a look at his schedule? He keeps it hidden away for security reasons."

"I have my ways," the High Elf answered cryptically, and continued, "If you can take on the task, I can fill Ocato's free time with publicity visits and social gatherings, ways for him to meet people."

"Why, what would that achieve?"

"It'll show him the advantages of a traditional, heterosexual relationship, of course." Aluin leaned back in his chair, and declared: "We're going to find Ocato a bride."

* * *

"_Finally_," Carmine groaned when Goran meekly opened the door to their meeting room, having been scolded for breaking it last time, "Gods above, you're almost an hour late. Where have you been?"

"Just lost track of time," the Orc shrugged and closed the door casually, unfortunately not paying attention to how much strength went into the action. As such, the door shut with unintended force, splintered the new wooden hinges, then fell to the floor with a flinch-inducing crash. "... Sorry."

"Metal hinges next time," Carmine muttered, scribbling in his notebook – in fact a doodle of a door and a grumpy-looking Palace Smith, "Take a seat, Goran. We're behind schedule as it is."

"This is about the notes, right?" Goran pulled up a chair, still towering over the comparatively diminutive Bosmer, Breton and Khajiit. "I don't think they're working. He's not any closer to making a decision."

"But the Chancellor gets many notes from the others," Ra'Jani pointed out, "If we do not do the same, their voice becomes the louder, see?"

"Just so," Carmine sighed, "I don't think Ocato has anything against homosexuality, but something is stopping him siding with us. Someone," he grimaced, "Aluin."

"It's an Altmer thing, right?" Goran said, "They're against pretty much anything unconventional, if I remember right."

"And Aluin is as orthodox as Altmer get. He also has no qualms about playing dirty, so we'd better be careful," the Wood Elf warned, "We'll keep sending notes just so he doesn't get the upper hand, but in the meantime we'll need other plans. Some ammunition against the others for a start."

"Didn't you just condemn Aluin for underhanded methods?" Olivier questioned, albeit timidly.

"Fight fire with fire, Olivier. If there's one thing Marseius and I can agree on, it's that a passive approach gets you nowhere fast," was the dismissive reply, "Speaking of, if we can dig up a few skeletons in his closet, we might just get him suspended from the Council, which means less opposition to deal with. Obviously I've tried getting him kicked out before, but I couldn't find anything. He covers his tracks well."

"Or there's nothing to find?" the Breton suggested.

"Don't be ridiculous, the man is clearly evil, he probably beats his wife. Goran, can you look into that? You have contacts in the Legion, you'll have more luck than I did."

"I'm not a big fan of snooping around, but I'll give it a go," he grudgingly agreed, "Can't imagine getting any scandal on Junia though, and Aluin's too clever to get caught out. What about Jelani?"

"Well he's _definitely_ up to something suspicious. Olivier, I want you to find out about him."

"W-what? Why me?"

"Because you're – look, don't take this the wrong way, but you're the least threatening person on the Council. He might let his guard down around you."

"I-I really don't think-"

"You'll be alright. You can brew an invisibility potion, right? Just use those to spy on him," and before Olivier could offer any more protests, Carmine went on: "So as well as that, we need to get Ocato's vote. Luckily I have a plan."

There was a collective groan from the other three. Political issues rarely got to the point where plotting and espionage needed to be involved, but when it did Carmine always had a horribly complex and oftenmost harebrained scheme at the ready. The last one had involved tar and feathers and an intricate series of pulleys operated by trained mudcrabs, until Goran had pointed out that if they wanted the Palace to be more secure, they could just double the guard.

"Now now, hear me out," the little man insisted, "All we need to do is convince the Chancellor that same-sex relationships are every bit as legitimate as marriage. But since words alone don't seem to work, we need to demonstrate it. He needs to _experience_ it."

There was a look of shock from Olivier, a frown from Goran, and extreme interest from Ra'Jani, who spoke up: "What does the Bosmer mean?"

Carmine grinned; "We're going to turn Ocato gay."


	7. Chapter 7

Because of the game's concept art of a High Elf, I'm pretty certain the Summerset Isles are meant to be based on old Japan, so the same goes for my version of Altmer culture – the only strictly speaking incorrect thing is the whole 'against homosexuality' mentality, because as far as I know the Japanese never had a problem with it. I believe it was even encouraged among samurai.

Ocato's Altmer clothing as described in the chapter is in fact a kimono (plus haori and hakama, because it's a formal event), but the word might not exist in Altmer language, so I've purposefully just called it 'robes'. The colour etiquette applies at least to female kimonos.

Also, there is mention of clocks in this chapter. I'm aware that there are no clocks in Oblivion (not without a mod, at least). But there are also no cleaning or cooking facilities and no children, so I don't reckon we're meant to take the world of Cyrodil absolutely literally.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Seven**

The palace was especially busy this afternoon, and despite his best efforts, Aluin hadn't been able to locate an empty room in which to talk to Marseius – whatever the Imperial had to say couldn't wait until tomorrow, or so he claimed. In the end, the only place he could find where they wouldn't be overheard was a small broom cupboard filled with, for some odd reason, painting supplies. Of course, there was a certain irony to be found in two men hiding in a closet to discuss how to thwart homosexuality. As both participants were of a rather serious nature, however, they failed to see the funny side of it.

"You wished to talk?" Aluin inquired delicately. This translated to _Make __it quick._ An Altmer had no business being in a dusty broom cupboard, after all.

"About Olivier. I had someone follow him, like you said," Marseius told him, mouth set in a thin, grim line, "He went down to the Waterfront last night. Didn't talk to anyone working on the streets, but he _did_ enter a rumoured brothel. Came out later with another man."

Aluin raised one eyebrow, and hushed his already-quiet voice further still, "Prostitute?"

"He's never been caught, but he's rarely out and about during the day. Only at night – and with a string of different people. I'm certain they're his customers."

"Then so is Olivier," the Altmer murmured thoughtfully, "That's enough to get him at least temporarily suspended from the Council. Excellent."

"Yes, but there's something else."

"And that would be...?"

Marseius frowned, as though even he was not quite sure what to make of his own words, "Jelani was with him."

It was not often that Aluin was genuinely shocked. Had he less self control he might have done a double-take; "What?"

"Jelani was waiting for him outside the building – the supposed brothel. The spy said he appeared out of nowhere, so I'm guessing an invisibility spell," the man explained, "They spoke, Jelani led him inside. Wasn't with him when Olivier re-appeared with the other man, though," he shook his head, "I had the feeling he had another reason for being on our side, but I don't know what to make of this at all."

"It is... puzzling," Aluin agreed, "I'll look into it myself, in case it was mistaken identity. If not, then there's clearly something Jelani doesn't want the rest of us to know."

"Nothing that will lose us his alliance, I hope. I'd still take shifty ulterior motives over seeing Carmine win," said Marseius sternly, "And speaking of – what about this business with trying to get Ocato married? How are you going to go about it?"

"I _have_ gone about it. Why else do you think the palace is so busy today?" was the prim answer, "There will be an Altmer gathering tonight and, as is custom, throughout the next four days as well. Every upper-class High Elf in travelling distance will be here. Granted, they won't all be pure-blood, but close enough-" at Marseius' nonplussed expression, he quickly remembered the futility in explaining such things to anyone non-Altmer. "Anyway, the palace will be full of suitable – _female_ – prospective partners, all of whom will be keen to ensnare someone as important as Ocato, no doubt. And with any luck, one of them will succeed."

* * *

"An Altmer gathering?" Modryn frowned, "Never heard of that before."

"It doesn't usually take place outside the Summerset Isles," said Ocato, or rather, said the wardrobe in which Ocato was currently submerged, "Since pure-bred Altmer live a long time even by elven standards, everything is slower paced over there. Including celebration, which is why gatherings last for five days. It's difficult to adapt something so unhurried to the comparatively hectic Imperial lifestyle."

"What's being celebrated exactly?"

"End of the Oblivion crisis, Aluin said. He's about three months late, but I suppose he was waiting for my schedule to clear up. Although-" he pursed his lips with a certain air of disapproval, "I hardly think it's sensible to just up and take five days off work. But Aluin wouldn't let me get out of it."

Oreyn stayed silent, watching the various articles of clothing being tossed from the wardrobe and onto the floor, with a mantra of "No..." from Ocato as he did so. There was enough finery to rival any noblewoman's collection, all of which was perfectly suitable for wearing to a party, in Modryn's opinion. Actually, he thought the red silk robes Ocato wore every day were splendid enough, but then he was hardly the expert on these things.

"Ah, here we go," Ocato pulled out a long, blue-grey ensemble, "Traditional Altmer clothing."

Modryn was evidently not impressed, "Colour's a bit dull, isn't it?"

With a hint of annoyance, Ocato answered: "It's supposed to be. Only younger Altmer wear vibrant clothing – and as you get older, the colours get more and more neutral, as a way of ageing gracefully," he laid the robes on the bed with a cautious reverence, and began tidying away the much more opulent fashions carelessly strewn all over the place, "And since I _am_ woefully old by now, it would be inappropriate for me to show up in anything too bright."

The Dunmer again eyed the outfit sceptically, "Isn't it about three sizes too big for you?"

"Again, it's supposed to be. We don't cut our clothing to the shape of the body like Imperials do. Instead it's folded in such a way that tailoring couldn't achieve. Which I need your help with-" once he'd wedged the last bit of embroidered velvet back into the packed wardrobe, Ocato turned back to Modryn, "I could do it all myself in the past but I'm not as flexible as I used to be. I just need an assistant, that's all."

"Hmph," the other elf grunted as Ocato began unlacing his shoes, "I still think the robes you have on _now_ are nicer."

"Yes, well, that's your opinion, isn't it?" that slight hint of High Elf pomposity again. Oreyn decided not to comment. "These robes are Imperial. I can hardly wear Imperial robes to an Altmer gathering now, can I?"

"You're wearing Imperial smallclothes," Modryn pointed out.

"Stop being difficult. And how do you know what kind of smallclothes I'm wearing?" They were Imperial, but that was beside the point. He did have to admit, he sided with humankind on that particular subject; it was all very well that Altmer underpants could be folded into the shape of a swan, but they weren't nearly as comfortable.

"Well I'm going to see in a minute, aren't I?"

"You are not. I'm keeping my trousers on."

"Your Imperial trousers."

"Oh hush up and help me with the robes. It won't take ten minutes."

It did, in fact, take the better part of an hour, a few curse words from Modryn, some subsequent scolding from Ocato, and the clever if not quite authentic use of a few hidden ties to keep the thing from falling apart. Ocato made a mental note not to move excessively throughout the evening, just in case.

"It'll do, right?" Modryn said at last, "What about your hair?"

"Too short to do anything with it. It's custom in the Isles to grow it out as a symbol of longevity, but I've kept it short for a while... you don't think anyone will mind, do you?"

"If they do then they're just being pedantic. Does that mean you used to have long hair, then?"

"What?" the Chancellor actually looked flustered, "Oh, well – yes, a very long time ago. It was about down to my lower back – stop snickering!"

"Sorry," he did stop, but he was still grinning, "Hard to imagine you with long hair. Did it suit you?"

"No. Hence why I had it cut," Ocato glanced in the mirror again, smoothing the strands of chestnut-brown hair back, subconsciously self-conscious, "I suppose I'm not expected to look as though I've only just left the Isles... that just leaves fragrance, then."

"Fragrance?" and when Ocato opened a small and decorated jar of ointment lying on his table, he queried incredulously, "You mean _perfume?_ You actually wear that stuff?"

"Nothing wrong with smelling nice."

"But it's for women-"

"Here, yes. In the Isles it's warm, people of _both_ genders perspire, and so it's considered perfectly acceptable to mask it with fragrance," Ocato interrupted, applying the barest minimum of the ointment to his neck, "You may call it perfume if you wish, but I see nothing demeaning about it. People judge with their noses as well as their eyes and ears, you know."

"I suppose," Modryn conceded grudgingly, since it was hard to argue with that logic. He sniffed, immediately detecting the sweet yet tangy aroma of... was that oranges? "Strong stuff, isn't it? You only put a little on."

"Imported from the Summerset Isles. None of that watered-down stuff you get in the Market District that wears off after an hour," the Chancellor told him, re-lidding the jar and carefully tucking it away, "It's a luxury, and unfortunately one that comes with a matching price tag. I can justify the expense if I save it for special occasions only. Speaking of, what time is it?" he glanced over at the nearby clock and did a double-take, "By the Nine, we're late! Quick, we need to get going."

"But I haven't shaved properly-"

"You never shave properly. Now come on, we have to-"

"I _do_ shave properly, just not very often. Now where did I put my razors..."

"We don't have time for this! Modryn, get back here!"

* * *

Modryn very quickly established that Altmer gatherings were boring.

Well... he supposed they were just like any other social event, really, only slower paced and with more bowing involved. And equally as dull – he'd never been much of a party person, and told as much to anyone who invited him, as if the scruffy appearance and perpetual scowl didn't already give it away. Parties were, in his opinion, a colossal waste of time in which people stood around aimlessly, drinking too much and bragging about their wealth, which they didn't actually _have_ because they spent it all on lavish, useless events like this one.

He was perhaps enjoying himself even less than usual because he seemed to be the only one not having the time of his life. Oh there were other guards about, Imperials stood so still and impassive that they may well have been statues, but none looking particularly irritated. It reminded him why there were next to no Dunmer in the Legion; only Imperials could stand around all day without dozing off. In Morrowind the guards had paced around everywhere.

And while he was stood here bored out of his skull, receiving no attention save the occasional mucky look from the snottier Altmer in the room, Ocato was a few feet away in full swing of the party. At least, Modryn thought he was. It was difficult to tell what he was doing exactly, mostly due to the huge crowd of people around him. Being the most important man in the room, in the _city_, Ocato was naturally the centre of attention. And he socialised as effortlessly as any noble should, smiling graciously at the compliments and flattery laid thick upon him, working his way through the _queue_ of women who wanted a dance.

Modryn was jealous. Hell, of course he was jealous. He couldn't hold a single conversation without breaching _some_ rule of etiquette. And while the friends he had gathered over the years appreciated and – though he was baffled as to why – even _admired_ his ability to simply speak his mind, the majority of people he had met didn't take his bluntness especially well. He shrugged it off because he already had a small but close-knit circle of equally brusque friends, but the problem was, they were all in Chorrol. He was here in the Imperial City, and it had never quite occurred to him until now that he was completely alone.

He considered himself a lone wolf kind of guy. Had always been content with solitude, even preferred it to the company of others at times. But then he'd always had the familiarity of the Fighters Guild, the comfort of others nearby even if no words were exchanged. It had been almost three months since he'd set foot in there, and he suddenly realised: he was lonely.

He looked again at Ocato as he began yet another dance with yet another coyly-smiling girl, those blue-grey robes shifting as fluidly as water over his tall, slender form. They did admittedly look good on him, but they also served to remind Modryn just how shaped Ocato was by his Altmer heritage, personality-wise. It gave him his grace and patience and refinement, but also that certain something all High Elves had that made them seem inaccessible, somehow. A kind of unobtainable perfection that isolated them all from other races.

Modryn got on well with the man, and felt comfortable enough talking to him like an equal. But he was also sharply aware how different they were as well. Worlds apart, even. And at this moment, his world had never felt emptier.

* * *

There were times when Ocato hated his job.

He could deal with the sea of paperwork, the hectic schedule, the bickering colleagues. He could deal with the scrutiny of the press, the accusations of usurping power, the – potentially literal – possibility of being stabbed in the back by his supposed allies. But if there was one thing he tried to avoid at all costs, it was social meetings. Schmoozing meetings. Sucking-up meetings. Mostly directed _at_ him, but as High Chancellor his task was to keep things running smoothly, and that meant doing a fair bit of boot-licking back. Indeed, quite a few past confrontations had been avoided by Ocato buttering the right people up, and for that reason he'd put up with this game of false flattery and unsubtle manipulation for a number of years now.

Then Modryn came along.

He was curt and unyielding in his ways, possessing a stark sense of logic stripped of things like etiquette and sensitivity. And yet Ocato found himself agreeing with certain things the man said, little things – why did Ocato eat sponge pudding with a fork, for example, when a spoon was better suited to the task? You were supposed to eat dessert with a fork, and Ocato naturally always had, but when he actually thought about it, it did seem kind of... well, silly. You could never get all the crumbs with a fork, but a spoon worked just fine.

Modryn's political views were just too abrupt to be applied in reality, but the Chancellor wished it were possible. He was so tired of sycophants, especially with Modryn's refreshingly blunt honesty reminding him that people didn't _need_ to lie all the time. He wanted to tell others exactly what he thought of them. He'd even like to be told whether he did or didn't have someone's admiration, respect and trust, just so he'd know where he stood.

At this Altmer gathering in particular he was especially tempted to challenge the compliments thrown his way, to refuse dances with women and tell them that their eyelashes would fall off if they kept fluttering them like that. But he'd gotten to High Chancellor by being socially savvy, and he knew that even as the ruler of the Empire he couldn't get away with that sort of behaviour.

Over the heads of the crowd of people, he glanced at Modryn across the room. He leaned against a pillar instead of standing upright and sentry-esque like the other guards in the room. He'd shaved properly for once, his jaw oddly bare without its usual stubble, but the effort was moot given the state of his armour, and the Mohawk everyone else found so distasteful. Many of the Altmer dutifully ignored him, but a few sent dirty looks his way, only to be given a glare that could probably shatter glass if it really wanted to. Obviously, quite a lot of the High Elves were discussing how inappropriate the warrior was.

And Oreyn could hear them perfectly well – he had the same elven hearing after all – but was completely unaffected by it. He looked positively bored, as a matter of fact. If the Legion soldiers in the room felt the same they didn't dare show it, and so they went unnoticed by the guests. Oreyn was thrust into the spotlight, for all the wrong reasons, and the mer didn't give a damn.

Ocato found himself a little envious, truthfully. Strict lessons in the Summerset Isles had drilled into his head the correct behaviour for an Altmer, and the socially apocalyptic consequences if those rules weren't followed. And while the Chancellor could turn the other cheek to the various slander laid upon him by press and public, being shunned by his own race was something he just couldn't take.

He was proud of his heritage, of course he was, but it did feel like a gilded cage sometimes. Modryn felt no need to please and impress anyone, no obligation to treat Dunmer with any more respect than the other people. He supposed Oreyn's harshness could be mistaken for the hostility his kind were so famous for, but that seemed more a part of the man than a part of his race. He owed little, if anything to his lineage, and he was not bound by their customs.

Yet another generically pretty girl asked him to dance and he numbly agreed, even though he had been on his feet all night and his legs were starting to ache, because it was unthinkable to refuse. But he stole one last look at Modryn Oreyn before decorum demanded he keep his eyes on his dance partner. Wistfully, he wondered what it would be like to be masterless.

* * *

On the balcony overlooking the room, hidden away from the hum of the party below, sat a frustrated Bosmer, a worried Breton, a thoughtful Orc, and a Khajiit scribbling in her notebook.

"Look at this," Carmine announced, exasperated, "Look at this! He's been talking and dancing with people all night, and every single one of them female."

"There does seem to be a curious amount of women," Olivier tugged his cuff, a usual nervous habit, "Is it just coincidental bad timing, you think? The gathering, I mean."

The Bosmer shook his head; "Aluin's work," he answered grimly, "I can't think what he's trying to achieve, though. If I didn't know any better I'd say he's trying to get Ocato hitched, but – well, the Chancellor's a bit old for that sort of thing."

"_We're_ trying to get Ocato hitched. In a sense."

"Yes, but that's different."

"How?"

"Because – because it _is_, okay?"

"The Chancellor is no kitten, but he still has his appeal," Ra'Jani cut in, albeit distractedly as she continued to write without pause, "Just look at all the others around, trying to sink their claws into him. They care little about his years, no?"

"Well they all want a bit of his power for themselves," Goran added, "Plus it helps that he's relatively easy on the eyes as well. He looks good in those robes, doesn't he? That blue-grey colour suits him," everyone, even Ra'Jani, paused to stare at him, "What?"

"No... never mind," Carmine said, though still eyeing the Orc suspiciously. "Anyway, if Aluin _is_ trying to set him up, we need to move quickly. What have you found out about Marseius?"

To which Goran shook his head, "Nothing."

Carmine... blinked. "Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean there's nothing to find. He's not doing anything morally dodgy, Carmine."

"But – but he's _evil!_ Why else would he so strongly oppose homosexuality?"

"He'll have his reasons, whatever they are. Not just for the sake of being a villain, though," the chieftain stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Aluin is closer to the 'evil villain' type. I bet he has an evil laugh."

"Never mind about Aluin, there must be _something_ we can use against Marseius. He beats his wife, right? Surely he beats his wife."

"He adores his wife. I spied on them myself, she has him wrapped around her little finger."

"But-!"

"He voted in favour of women joining the Imperial Legion, remember? Which would have been enough to single-handedly win the case, since he _runs_ the Legion and all," Goran reminded him, "Marseius said that 'if our women are as strong and proud as our men, the other Provinces have twice the reason to bow to us'. I remember it pretty well. It's the only motion you and he ever agreed on."

Upon recalling that this was indeed true, Carmine slumped, crestfallen. "There's absolutely nothing we could use against him? No money laundering, abandoned family, racial slurs?"

"No, no, and he's been bigoted for so long no-one bats an eyelid anymore, so no," was the summarised answer, "You'll need a new tactic, Carmine. We can't get Marseius thrown out, and even if we could and _did_, the Legion would suffer as a result. You know how well he runs it."

"Hmph," Carmine folded his arms, sulked for a bit, then said: "We have no other choice, then. We need to go ahead with The Plan."

"What plan?" Olivier asked, bewildered.

"_The _Plan. The one I explained last time."

"Oh," the man did not sound particularly thrilled at this, "That plan."

"It's Plan, not plan. You have to say it with a capital P, or it doesn't sound important enough," Carmine insisted. No-one was quite sure how to vocalise capital letters, though oddly enough they could tell the difference between Carmine's two versions of the word. "And don't use that tone. It's a good idea."

"What is?" Goran asked, and quickly deduced from Olivier's pained look, "Oh, not _that._ You're not actually thinking of going through with that, are you?"

"It's a good idea!"

"To show the Chancellor the way of Two-Moons, yes?" Ra'Jani glanced up from her writing, "Ra'Jani approves of this idea. Very much so."

"See? At least one of you agrees with me."

"Ra'Jani, this isn't Elsweyr," Goran explained as patiently as he could, "We can't just turn Ocato gay. There are consequences-"

"We're doing this so there won't be consequences anymore," Carmine spoke, his eyes bright and words impassioned, "So that people can love whoever they choose without repression, guilt, fear and intolerance. So that we can all live in a better, _happier_ world."

"Ooh, very nice," Ra'Jani nodded, eagerly scribbling with her quill, "Very good speech. Will store away for future reference, yes."

Carmine shot her a sideways glance, but continued: "These measures have to be taken, Goran. They're necessary. The Plan is necessary."

The Orc sighed, and shook his head, "It's a bad idea."

"It's a _good_ idea. Foolproof. Failproof. Many other types of proof. Trust me, I can make this work."

"Well I want no part in it," he answered stubbornly, "They're underhanded tactics, the kind Aluin would use."

"Exactly! You have to fight fire with fire, Goran, it's the only way to beat the opposition."

"Then go ahead and do it, but I'm not helping you. Call it a crisis of conscience," he stood up, looming over the others like a court judge, and just as disapproving, "I can accept subterfuge, but this is going too far. I won't risk it."

Carmine waited until Goran had left them alone on the balcony before crossing his arms and declaring: "Now he's just being unreasonable."

"He's got a point, though," Olivier mumbled, "This Plan, it's a bit... questionable, isn't it?"

"There's nothing questionable about it. I explained everything perfectly."

"This one likes The Plan," Ra'Jani spoke up, "Is clever, edgy. Any Khajiit would be proud."

Her timid counterpart hesitated, but finally conceded, "I... I'll help out too, then. It could work, I suppose."

"It _will_ work. It has to work," the confidence in Carmine's voice soon faded into uncertainty, "Because I don't have a clue what to do next if it doesn't."


	8. Chapter 8

I'd just intended for Ocato and Modryn's interaction with each other the past few chapters to be friendship, but when I gave this story to my gay best friend (every girl needs one!) to read, he interpreted it as them flirting with each other. He's obviously more of an expert on these things than me, and now that I look back on the chapters... they are kind of doing that, aren't they? I'm taking it as a compliment at any rate, since I guess it's a good prelude to the actual romance in the story. Which, lucky readers, starts with this chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Eight**

Ocato had attended two more gatherings by the time Carmine had everything needed for The Plan. He and the others were hidden away in the empty dormitories of the Moth Priest Quarters, located one floor below Ocato's rooms. Carmine paced up and down the room with a look of grim determination, every bit as militant as Marseius.

"Right. Ocato and his guard are still downstairs, his room should be empty. Do we have everything – sweetroll appetiser?"

Ra'Jani held up the plate, "Check."

"Which will make him thirsty enough to drink – do we have the spiked wine?"

Olivier timidly produced the bottle; "Check."

"Male prostitute?"

Said prostitute twirled a strand of lustrous red hair around one finger and said in silken, sultry tones: "Check."

"Then we're good to go," Carmine halted before the young man, their accomplice, "You remember what to do? Put everything on his desk, hide in the wardrobe-"

"-Wait for the wine to take effect and then show him a good time, I know. This is staying a secret, right? I mean, this is breaking and entering... not that I'm against either of those things _separately_, but I don't want to get arrested or anything."

"Staying secret, yes. We've no intention to tell the press, we just want some leverage over the Chancellor," he was assured, "Give him something to think about, that sort of thing. Anyway, you'd better get up there before Ocato comes back."

"See you in a few hours," this seemed to be directed at Olivier more than anyone else, and then the redhead exited the room, the sway evident in his step even as he hurried.

"... Phew. Didn't expect to go ahead with this so soon," Carmine remarked afterwards, seating himself on one of the beds, "Glad we got everything together before the week was up. Who got the wine? And the prostitute?"

Olivier immediately went a rather rosy shade of pink. "Um, me."

"What, which one?"

"... Both."

He almost fell over; "_What?_"

The Breton tugged at his collar, laughing nervously. "Well, I'm rather good at Alchemy-"

"You know damn well I wasn't talking about the wine! So Marseius was right, you _do_ go down to the Waterfront-"

"I-it's not what you think!" Olivier spluttered at once, "I'm not – I don't – I don't _lay_ with them or anything! I-I just take them out to restaurants and such!"

"Riiight. Because everyone knows hookers are just intended to be table guests."

"It's true," the man insisted, "Alright, so I have been down to the Waterfront _and_ I've hired-" he paused hesitantly, "-_Company_, yes. But I have never once slept with any of them."

"Nothing? No touching, no undressing?" Ra'Jani asked with a certain air of disappointment. "Wasted opportunity. Could have had fun. Could have told Ra'Jani about it afterwards."

"I wouldn't _t-tell_ anyone about it! I wouldn't do that in the f-first place!"

"Well I don't believe you," Carmine declared, "I'm sorry, but _no-one_ hires a prostitute just to wine and dine them. It's not the done thing."

"Hiring company in the first place isn't the done thing. Being a – a _degenerate_ isn't the done thing," was Olivier's exasperated reply, "And may I point out, spiking the High Chancellor's wine to guilt-trip him into voting for our cause isn't the done thing either."

"I told you, it's necessary. Do you think Aluin wouldn't stoop down to this level, if he hasn't already? Yes these are underhanded tactics, but it isn't like we have a decent alternative-"

"_Quiet._"

Now all Khajiit possessed the innate terror-inducing ability aptly named _Eye of Fear_. Carmine was pretty sure Ra'Jani's Look was a watered-down version. It was a Look that mothers gave misbehaving children, or wives gave forgetful husbands. It was enough to shut up the two squabbling men at once.

There was silence for a time. The Bosmer looked away. The Breton fidgeted.

"The wine... did it include a memory suppressant? Will Ocato recall everything, when he wakes up?" asked Carmine after a while.

Olivier blinked; "It's an aphrodisiac, not a date-rape drug. He'll remember, he just won't know why he was so keen," he paused in sudden realisation, "Wait, what about the bodyguard? We forgot about him!"

"Relax, I took care of it," the Wood Elf answered with the careless wave of his hand, "Slipped a slow-acting tranquilliser in his lunch earlier. Should be coming into play about now."

His human counterpart looked rather surprised, "You – you drugged the bodyguard? Isn't that a little... overkill?"

"_Necessary_ overkill. Don't want him walking in on Ocato now, do we?"

"Quiet," Ra'Jani said again.

"B-but we weren't even arguing that time-"

"Quiet because someone is walking past!" she hissed urgently, clapping a clawed hand over his mouth. The three of them stayed silent as they heard footsteps from the outside corridor come and go, and then they were free to talk again.

"W-was that Ocato?"

"This one thinks so, yes."

"Then it's working perfectly," Carmine declared with a certain sense of triumph, "All we have to do now is wait."

* * *

By the third night of the Altmer celebrations, Modryn wasn't feeling any better. In fact tonight seemed to be especially bad, as he caught himself almost nodding off on the spot a few times. He could only assume that three days of standing on his feet – coupled with the reluctant admittance that maybe, just _maybe,_ his age was starting to catch up with him – was taking its toll. The knowledge was endlessly frustrating. Not least because he had another two days to go.

As the evening went on, and his weariness progressed to all-out exhaustion, people started to notice. He was finally taken aside by Ocato, though the gesture was hardly private since the man was the focus of everyone's attentions at any given time. He was asked in low, quiet tones if he was alright, though he could barely process the words; he was vaguely aware of a half-hearted insistence on his part that he was fine. Obviously this did not fool the Chancellor in the slightest:

"Don't be ridiculous, you look dead on your feet. Get yourself to bed, you need some rest."

"But you-"

"I can take care of myself for a few hours, I should think. Plenty of Legion soldiers around in case things go wrong."

"But I-"

"_You_ are going upstairs before you outright collapse. Off you go now."

He was too fatigued to protest. He retained some semblance of dignity leaving the vast room in which the gathering took place, but as soon as he was out of sight from any Altmer or Legion soldiers he gave up the pretence, unsteady on his feet as he walked. Dragging himself up the seemingly endless flights of stairs was a monumental effort, but finally he made it to Ocato's room.

He just couldn't understand why he felt so drained – he'd been in major fights and walked away in better shape. Maybe because he hadn't had enough to eat today? After all the dirty looks he'd received the past two nights for his untidy appearance, he'd spent the entire afternoon shaving meticulously, and missed a meal in the process. Hardly end-of-the-world stuff, or so he'd thought at the time, but he was positively ravenous now.

It was at this point that he noticed the sweetroll.

Ocato did like his sugary things. Kind of funny, the most powerful and influential man in the world having a sweet tooth. Modryn couldn't remember ordering sweetroll for Ocato earlier, but the palace chef had made so much of the stuff lately, maybe he'd sent it up by assumption of request.

But if Ocato wasn't expecting it, he wouldn't miss a few bites taken out of it... right?

It was hardly professional behaviour but to hell with it, he was tired and hungry and frankly in need of comfort food after three days of being purposefully and snootily ignored by Altmer. No-one could argue the fact that High Elves were captivating in their grace and poise, but they also did an excellent job of making others feel worthless stood next to them. Ocato wasn't so bad, owing to the fact that he socialised outside his own race, but he still had that distinctly Altmer quality that Modryn found equally admirable and irritating.

He wolfed down far more sweetroll than he had intended, and quickly realised he was very thirsty indeed. There was a bottle of fine wine placed next to the plate, a conscious invitation that Oreyn was too sleep-addled to be suspicious of; a little part of morality protested at him essentially stealing the Chancellor's wine, but it was soon quashed by the reminder that he ran about fetching food and such for Ocato all the time. Overcome by his sudden need for a drink, he uncorked the wine and poured himself a glass.

And another.

And another.

And pretty soon the bottle was empty, he was _still_ thirsty and also now curiously light-headed. He stumbled to the nearest bed; Ocato's, as identified by the soft, silken sheets and downright sinful levels of comfort. It was like being enveloped by butter.

He closed his heavy eyelids and drifted, as of yet unaware of a growing heat beneath his skin.

* * *

"Care for a dance, High Chancellor?"

Pulled from his distracted thoughts, the woman in front of him came sharply into focus. Young. Pretty. Fluttering eyelashes. He resisted the urge to sigh in exasperation.

"Actually, I'm a little tired-" the impulse to obey Summerset Isles etiquette was practically a physical reaction, a shard of cold that shot up his spine and the back of his neck, sending warning alarms straight into his skull. "...Though I suppose I can manage one more dance," he conceded, plastering on a smile that covered his weariness, and holding out one hand for her to take.

He was quite certain he had danced with this one before, actually, but she had changed into a different robe, one designed to catch the eye with bright colours and bold patterns. Or perhaps it was a different but similar-looking girl. He had to guiltily confess to himself that they all looked about the same to him; it was the view taken by loud-mouthed bigots that all High Elves were identical and therefore riddled with incest. But Ocato could barely tell the difference between all the women he'd danced with tonight.

And while this one was, yes, very pretty, so were all the women in the room – and yet somehow plain in their own way, because they all conformed to the same idea of beauty. He hadn't seen anyone who particularly stood out.

The girl he danced with now was much the same: well-dressed and well-spoken and well-mannered. There was probably a queue of suitors at her door every night. But of course she, like any ambitious social climber, wanted to aim as high as possible; he recognised that gleam of cunning beneath that flirtatious look in her eyes. He'd seen it the past three nights in countless faces, and he was well aware of what it meant. Altmer gatherings were chiefly a way of pairing the younger participants off, and almost every woman here had her eye on _him._

The thought didn't inflate his ego because... well, frankly because he wasn't interested. It had been more years than he cared to admit since he had indulged in any kind of romance, and he did not hunger for intimacy as some other men did. Besides, he was under no illusion that he could maintain a happy relationship _and_ stay on top of all his work. It just wasn't going to happen. And it was unfair on his potential spouse that they would always have to be second priority, if indeed he could spare them any time and attention at all. Of course, these women he danced with were less interested in an adoring partner and more in a wealthy, powerful and much sought-after trophy husband. Such was the way these things worked.

He finished the dance without truly realising it, having performed the steps automatically after three repetitive nights. The woman smiled sweetly and opened her mouth to start up a conversation, but Ocato busily excused himself. It was a breach of appropriate behaviour and he felt that spike of cold again, but he ignored it as he carefully avoided any social contact and exited the room.

Outside the corridor was quiet, provoking a sigh of relief from the politician. He had gone to a few of these gatherings as a younger mer and found them a pleasant break from his studies, but now they were exhausting. He could sympathise with Modryn's earlier antics – he'd seen the Dark Elf fall asleep on the spot at least once – though when he thought about it, it was actually quite worrying. Oreyn was, after all, considerably healthier than Ocato was, and spent most of his days on his feet anyway, keeping guard and running various errands. Perhaps the three days had just been a strain, but it was still a cause for concern.

Rubbing the back of his neck to dispel that icy feeling of guilt, Ocato left the party behind, and began to head upstairs.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Moth Priest Quarters, Carmine and the others were waiting.

"Do... do you think it worked?" Olivier asked at last.

Carmine sat on one of the beds, drumming his fingers soundlessly against the sheets to a tune only he knew, "I guess so. I mean, I don't see why it wouldn't."

"It's just, it's been a while, and I thought..." cheeks reddening, he nevertheless continued: "There'd be more... you know... _noise_ from upstairs. I mean, we're just below Ocato's room, so we should be able to, um, overhear."

"Depends on how vocal he's being, doesn't it?" Carmine replied, but he looked a little uncertain himself, "Besides, the walls are thick. The floors too. Maybe all sorts is going on up there and we just can't hear it."

"I'm not sure..." the Breton fiddled with his shirt collar anxiously, "Ra'Jani, can you hear anything? You have better ears than probably me and Carmine put together."

She cocked her head quizzically in the general direction of Ocato's room; "Only silence. But..." she tilted her neck to the other side, "Something from here. A few floors down. Footsteps."

"What, coming upstairs?" Carmine frowned, "No-one should be heading up here. Is it the bodyguard?"

Ra'Jani listened intently. "No armour scraping. Footsteps too light."

"One of the Altmer?" Olivier suggested.

"Well it can't be, the gathering isn't finished yet," Carmine told him.

Olivier went quite a bit paler than he normally was, "It's still going?"

"That's what I just said."

"Then wouldn't that mean Ocato is still downstairs?"

"We heard him come upstairs earlier, remember?" the Wood Elf pointed out with a touch of impatience.

"Ocato is the host of the party, he's not going to leave two hours early, is he?" Olivier snapped, or got as close to snapping as his mild temperament would allow, "We heard _someone_ come upstairs, it might not have been the Chancellor."

Carmine too grew pallid when he finally caught on, "...Do you think? But who else would have reason to come up here? Ra'Jani, are you _sure_ it isn't the bodyguard?"

"This one is sure, yes."

"Th-then who is it? It could be a-a thief, or even an a-assassin!" was Olivier's stricken answer, "There's no telling what terrible things are going on up there. You should go up and see what's happening!"

"Wait, wait, you think there's a crazed killer up there and you want me to go and _check?_"

"Footsteps are getting louder," Ra'Jani murmured, "This one can investigate, if you'd like."

"No – no, I'll go. You stay here and listen for anyone else arriving," Carmine gave in grudgingly, "Olivier, do you have a spare invisibility potion? Just so I don't run into bother."

"Wh-what makes you think I just carry one with me at all times-"

"What, you just stroll into the Waterfront fully visible, do you?"

That got him a glare. "Fine. Don't waste it." Though annoyed at being used as a free potions supply, he handed over a small purple bottle – not at all suspiciously labelled 'water' – to the Bosmer, who tucked it away. Everyone could hear the approaching footsteps from the floor below by now, so Carmine wasted no further time with words, but quickly scurried from the room.

Most if not all Bosmer were a little wistful at the average height – or lack thereof – of their race. Carmine, however, had come to see its advantages, and since he was not above snooping around, this was certainly not the first time his small stature had come in handy. Light as he was, his feet made almost no sound against the stone flooring as he dashed ahead of whoever was walking up here, to the Chancellor's quarters.

He let himself into the room, and immediately noticed the problem. It took the form of a dazed-looking Dark Elf with a Mohawk, curled up on Ocato's bed. Plus a distinctly empty wine bottle laid sideways on the desk.

He immediately hurried over to the wardrobe, which opened itself, or rather was opened by a panicked redhead prostitute, who hissed, "He drank all the wine!"

"I can fetching well see that," Carmine answered as sharply as a low, quiet whisper would permit, "Why didn't you come down to tell us earlier?"

"I was too worried he'd see me leaving the wardrobe! I think he's out of it now, but-"

"He won't notice you, but whoever's heading upstairs will," Carmine took out the purple bottle from his jacket and thrust it at the young man. "Here, drink this. Invisibility potion. Olivier is waiting downstairs."

"Right," he uncorked and drank the contents, fading from view before Carmine's eyes. But what Carmine very swiftly realised was that he only had one potion – although strictly speaking he had _none_ at the moment. And he heard the footsteps outside the door, giving him just enough time to slip into the wardrobe. Again his slight frame worked to his advantage, the closet too stuffed with clothes to accommodate a larger person. But being thankful was the last thing on his mind as he hastily shut the doors, and hid.

* * *

The first thing Ocato noticed was the person curled up on his bed.

"Modryn?" he inquired, approaching cautiously, "Are you alright? What's the matter?" when he received no answer he drew closer still, and lightly touched the Dunmer's arm, the only part of him not obstructed by armour, "Can you hear me?"

At last he got a muffled moan, and one scarlet eye cracked open, bleary and unfocused; "'Cato...?"

"What happened to you?" Something was very, very wrong. Ocato had been in a similar state before, when he pushed himself just a little too far on the paperwork front. But standing around being bored all evening didn't warrant this kind of fatigue, especially in someone as able-bodied as Modryn. The man was in his senior years but he was still very much in peak physical condition.

"I don't... feel so good," he mumbled, "Dizzy... too warm..."

Ocato lay a hand on the other Elf's forehead, brushing aside stray strands of hair from the dishevelled Mohawk, "Feels like you're burning up. Can you sit?"

Modryn propped himself up one one arm, which buckled at the elbow and sent him sprawling back onto the sheets. After a few twitches of not-quite-movement he tried again with valiant but fruitless effort. The Chancellor swiftly hooked his arms around Oreyn's chest as he threatened to collapse again, dragging the weight of him upright with some difficulty. He propped him against the headboard as best as he could, feeling the heat radiate from the warrior in their close proximity.

"Tell me what happened," he spoke firmly, one hand still braced against an iron-clad shoulder in case Modryn fell on one side, "I know this isn't natural tiredness. Did someone do this to you?"

"No, I-" the Dark Elf shook his head, breathing harsh and ragged, "-It's too hot. I need – I need to get this armour off. It's too heavy, it's too – too much..." he fumbled with the straps securing the shoulder pauldrons without much success, his fingers visibly shaking.

"Modryn, I need to know what happened." When he didn't answer, too busy engrossed in his armour, Ocato took ahold of his hands and gently steered them away, ceasing the distraction, "I suspect you've been drugged. Did you speak to anyone outside the palace today? Did any of your food or drink taste odd?"

Modryn, who had been weakly struggling against Ocato's deft yet firm hold on his wrists, instantly stopped as he remembered, "Drink? Wait, there was... wine." And the memory became a little clearer: "I came back upstairs from the gathering and there was wine on the desk... I only meant to have one glass, but I was thirsty," he paused with a frown, "I'm still thirsty. I need a drink, it's too...it's too _warm_ in here..."

"I didn't order any wine," Ocato glanced around the room and quickly spotted the empty bottle. He moved from the bed to inspect it, or at least tried to, but was stopped by insistent dusky-skinned hands, "What is it?"

"Can you..." Modryn looked and sounded wretched, and despite the haziness in his eyes the pleading expression beneath was unmistakable, "Can you help me with my armour? I can't do it myself."

There were more pressing matters like the wine bottle, and Ocato also knew next to nothing about disassembling armour, but Modryn looked so pitiful that he didn't have the heart to refuse. He settled back on the bed and struggled with the cuirass' shoulder-straps, as slow and clumsy as any novice to these things. Thankfully he was spared some embarrassment at his own inexperience by Modryn being only partially aware of his surroundings, a dead weight slumped against the bed's headboard, arms cradled uselessly in his lap. His breath was worryingly laboured, eyes half-lidded and gazing at Ocato beneath dark lashes.

One by one the pauldrons came off, carefully set aside by the High Chancellor. He'd seen Modryn unarmoured plenty of times before, of course. But it was only now, when he was close enough to compare to his own slender frame, that he realised how broad-shouldered Oreyn was – he'd always assumed that width was just the bulk of the pauldrons until now. He was not as huge as an Orc or Nord, but then Dark Elves were built to be swift, spry fighters, not raw muscle.

"'Cato," Modryn interrupted his thoughts, his voice oddly husky, reminiscent to those Dunmer native to Morrowind. He loosely grasped one of the politicians hands, guiding it to his waist.

"What are you- oh," he felt the series of clasps running down the side of the cuirass to keep it fastened together and painstakingly undid each one, before doing the same for the other side. From there, the front of the armour was easily removed, but the back... "I need you to move. Can you lean against me?"

He pulled the other mer forwards to rest against his shoulder, keeping one arm locked around him for stability while the other shifted the back plate of the cuirass away. He'd just succeeded in dragging it off its wearer and off the bed when it came to his attention that Modryn was sniffing him.

"Er-" he began.

"You smell of oranges," his guard murmured, in that voice that spoke of Morrowind's ashen air and molten landscape. The words sent warm breath against Ocato's exposed neck, coupled with the light scratching of the Dunmer's newly-regrown stubble as his jaw moved. After a pause to inhale, he added drowsily: "I'm really thirsty."

"Ah – well – um," all of a sudden, he was painfully aware of just how close they were. He tried to pull away, accidentally brushing against the other man's cheeks and nose-

-And found himself abruptly locked with his lips.

His eyes widened, heat immediately colouring his face, but when he tried to retreat Modryn advanced, deepening the kiss. Dark Elf hands were clamped down on his biceps with out-of-the-blue strength, fingers digging in just a little too hard. But he barely noticed, too busily focused on the firmness of the muscle pressed against him, the fine sheen of sweat, the warmth, the lust-darkened eyes, the lips, the_ everything..._

The grip on his arms loosened, and Modryn dragged himself away with a torturous slowness, running his tongue over his own lips as though savouring the taste; "I..." either he was slurring or Ocato was too addled to process the words properly, "I'm really, _really_ thirsty..."

There was a lengthy pause before the High Elf could formulate a reply, voice strained: "...I'll just go and fetch you a glass of water then, shall I?"

Grabbing an empty glass, he left – _scurried_, if he was to be entirely honest with himself – the room and the half-conscious Dunmer behind, entering the nearest bathroom. A basin of water was already waiting, courtesy of the palace maids; the surface rippled and broke as he dipped the glass in and then, after a beat, splashed the remaining water over his face and neck. For a minute or so he simply leaned over the basin, staring into his own distorted reflection and still reeling from what had just happened.

What _had _just happened?

He still wasn't sure.

With a sigh and a feeling best described as dread, he took the glass back to his room, hesitating before he opened the door for fear of what he might find. He needn't have worried – in his absence, Modryn had curled back up on the bed, his breathing heavy with sleep. Ocato glanced between him and the glass of water in his hand before downing it himself, although in these circumstances strong alcohol would have been preferred.

Which reminded him, the wine. Marching over to the offending item, he snatched it up for inspection. Nothing suspicious about the label or the bottle itself, but when he raised it to his face to sniff...

"Aphrodisiac?" he asked aloud. Very subtle, the mark of high-grade stuff, and easily missed in the lingering scent of the wine. But Ocato had spent most of his youth brewing such things, and he could recognise that sickly-sweet scent almost anywhere. It explained his guard's... _inappropriate _behaviour, though Ocato hadn't exactly helped by all the close contact, not to mention taking the man's armour off for him. He flushed as he realised what Oreyn must have interpreted it as, in his muddled state.

But still, that didn't explain Modryn's fatigue. It couldn't have been the wine – an aphrodisiac was useless if the subject was too tired to do anything and besides, the warrior had looked off-colour all evening, _before_ drinking anything. Which meant the wine had been intended for Ocato.

He put the bottle back down with a sigh. He was certain, at least, that Modryn had not been poisoned, simply drugged with something to keep him out of the way. But he still didn't know who had set this entire thing up, or why. He fully intended to get to the bottom of it all, but in the meantime he had more immediate problems to deal with. Namely, the person passed out on his bed.

He approached apprehensively – Modryn would have to be moved, not only because Ocato needed to sleep, but it could also prevent a fair bit of awkwardness tomorrow morning if the Dunmer woke in his own bed. He could credit it to being a bizarre dream, if he remembered anything at all, and they could pretend this never happened. Much easier on everyone. Overall, it was a sound and sensible plan. Yes. Absolutely.

Now all he had to do was put it into practise.

He pried his hands under the sleeping man, flushing horribly at the close contact – it wouldn't have been so uncomfortable were it not for the recent turn of events. Even without the armour Oreyn was still heavy from the sheer amount of muscle- no, best not to think of that too much. Ocato cast a feather spell to aid him and lifted the body in his arms. Even then, easing him into the tiny adjoining room was a struggle, but he manoeuvred as best as he could, before depositing the Elf on his narrow bed.

He then, as an afterthought, draped the blankets over Oreyn's slumbering form. The action was rather tender, though he swiftly reminded himself that it was only necessity in convincing the man himself that he had collapsed in his own bed – that their awkward and clumsy kiss was but a fragment of a dream. Hardly fair, to have the bodyguard question his own feelings and attractions, but really, this was for the best.

He cast one last pitying look at Modryn before leaving him to his sleep.

* * *

While Ocato was tending to the man in the other room, Carmine slipped soundlessly from the wardrobe and padded away undetected. He'd witnessed the Plan gone awry, not to mention infringed on the Chancellor's privacy in such a way that should have troubled any conscience. And yet he couldn't feel guilty over what his half-baked scheme had resulted in. As a matter of fact, he felt quite cheerful.

He moved with a stealth that would have made the Gray Fox himself proud, heading down to the Moth Priest Quarters where two other Council members – plus a redhead prostitute – waited.

"Thank heavens you're back," Olivier sighed at once, and nodded towards the hooker, "He told me what happened, and you were up there for so long we thought you'd been caught..."

"No, I hid well enough. Ocato figured out the wine was spiked, though. He doesn't know about your proficiency with Alchemy, does he Olivier?"

"N-no, I don't think so. I mean, I keep it to myself."

"You should be alright, then. We might need to stage a culprit, though, he's going to investigate this further."

"Are we going to do this another time, then?" the scarlet-haired hooker asked Carmine, "I mean, the plan failed, and he'll be on his guard. It might be too risky to try again..."

"Oh, the Plan wasn't precisely a failure. We shouldn't need a prostitute anymore, though," there was that grin, that glint in his eyes that spoke of victory, "I've found the perfect alternative."


	9. Chapter 9

If anyone's wondering, Marseius is the guy who actually runs the Legion, overseeing recruitment, training, equipment, war strategy, that kind of thing, on top of also being a treaty negotiator. Goran, on the other hand, focuses on the more mundane tasks like managing the city watch and the prisons. I don't recall seeing any Orcs soldiers in Cyrodil, but in Morrowind there were quite a few, so it's plausible enough that the Imperial Legion isn't entirely made up of Imperials.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Nine**

When Modryn awoke, the feeling was best described as being hit by an Ogre, then chewed on by a bear, then spitefully kicked by a dremora.

The feeling was mostly concentrated in his head, but had also spread to ensure no other part of his body felt neglected. He sat up with some difficulty, given his limbs weren't responding terribly well, and noticed he wasn't wearing any armour. Strange, he didn't remember taking it off. Actually he didn't even remember going to bed, or just what he'd done to get himself into such a state. In fact the only thing he recalled was-

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh no.

'Dawning' realisation would have been the wrong word. There was no gradual, suffusing warmth of memories. 'Sudden' realisation also wasn't right, it didn't quite describe the sharpness, the coldness of last night's events coming back to him. In fact he gave up entirely on any metaphor, because he was a little too busy being completely and utterly _mortified._

OhbytheNinehedidn'tevenworship, hehadkissedOcato.

He very much wanted to curl up and wait for the ground to swallow him whole, but he knew that was logically impossible unless one of Tamriel's many gods took pity on him. As he'd never been the pious sort, he doubted that would happen. No matter how tempted he was to feign mortal illness, he had a job to get on with. He was a bodyguard. He had to guard Ocato's body- no wait, that didn't sound right.

He dressed himself, cheeks heating as he fastened every clasp and tie, and in doing so relived having it all taken off last night. Whether it was the familiar motions or just his wakening mind that triggered the memory, he didn't know. But he could recall, with unnerving clarity, Ocato's long, slender fingers unbuckling and unlacing, the golden hue of his skin catching and keeping the glow of the warm light...

What he _didn't_ recall was why the hell he'd interpreted that as Ocato wanting to sleep with him, and why he would agree to – never mind initiate – any sort of rendezvous with his employer in the first place. There'd been a bottle of wine, and wine tended to cloud people's judgement. But it also clouded people's memories, yet he could visualise everything in perfect detail right down to the air between them, thick and hot and saturated with the scent of oranges. The memory should have been fuzzier. It wasn't right, somehow.

Well, none of this was right. He wasn't attracted to Ocato, for a start.

...Was he?

No, he definitely wasn't.

He wasn't quite sure how to go about explaining this to Ocato, however. It was a little hard to claim that he'd never meant any of it and therefore wasn't to blame when he was the one who drank the wine, collapsed on the Chancellor's bed, asked the man to undress him, forced the kiss. He was the one entirely at fault, and Ocato knew that as well as he did.

He tried spending as long as he could on his hair, to delay having to actually leave his room. Except what if Ocato saw his perfectly-styled hair and thought Modryn was trying to impress him? That certainly _wasn't_ the intention, and so the Dunmer quickly decided to mess up his Mohawk again. But now what if Ocato thought he was deliberately trying to look rough and rugged? He tried making himself appear 'tidy, but in the careless way', only that look had it's own appeal and what if Ocato thought- oh to hell with it, he was just going to go outside.

With the air of someone knowingly marching to their doom – given Ocato's proficiency with Destruction magic, maybe he was – he steeled himself, and went to see the Chancellor.

* * *

Ocato was fidgeting.

It was an unusual gesture for him. He didn't have _time_ to fidget, not when there was work to get on with. But even though he was sat at his desk with the trade contract he had to read and sign in front of him, plus a drying quill held motionless in one hand, he couldn't bring himself to actually do anything. Not with the inevitable talk with his bodyguard so close at hand.

Worse still, Modryn was taking much longer than usual to get ready today, dragging out Ocato's tension. He knew the man was awake, could hear him shifting about next door, but he hadn't emerged yet. It was unbearable. He hoped Oreyn had forgotten last night, or at least had the sense to pretend he had forgotten. Then they could both pretend nothing had happened, while also pretending that they didn't know the other was keeping up a pretence.

The door to Modryn's room opened-

-And Modryn hadn't forgotten. He shouldn't have kept his hopes up; the warrior was too honest to maintain any kind of façade. No, the confusion and worry was practically written across his face in capital letters. He glanced across the room at Ocato, and the Chancellor then knew that Modryn hadn't passed it off as a dream, and that he was fully aware that Ocato remembered it as clearly as he did.

"Er," Modryn began, "Morning. Good morning, I mean."

Oh no, this wasn't going well at _all._

"Good morning," Ocato said back, trying to keep the strain out of his voice, "Busy day today. Lots of work to do."

"Right," Modryn gave a single nod, "I'll be outside. Outside the room, that is. Guarding."

"Enjoy yourself," the Altmer answered, and immediately wished he hadn't. He watched Modryn cross the room, though tried not to watch _too_ closely in case the man got the wrong idea. Not that he would, of course. He hadn't had the wrong idea in the _first_ place, he'd just had... momentarily clouded judgement. Through no fault of his own, Ocato mentally hastened to add.

Before he could exit the room, Oreyn paused at the doorway. He could've sworn his heart stilled in dread as the man turned slightly and spoke with hesitation: "Ocato... I-"

"You couldn't get me something to eat, could you?" he interrupted swiftly, trying to sound as innocuous as possible, "I could do with a snack to see me through all this paperwork."

"What? Er-" luckily, Modryn was thrown off from whatever he was going to say, "-Alright. I'll be back in five minutes."

As soon as he'd left for the kitchens, Ocato deposited his quill back in the inkwell and then promptly slumped face-first over his desk. Close call. He was pretty sure Modryn had been about to bring up last night – just like him, to tackle problems head-on. But it was really the last thing Ocato wanted to talk about right now, not with all this work and then another gathering later on tonight.

Wait, the gathering... Ocato groaned and closed his eyes, arms folding over his head. Who was going to help him get ready tonight? He couldn't entrust the task to just anyone, but asking Modryn was out of the question. He'd just have to improvise when the evening came... for the time being, he decided he would mope. Yes, moping sounded like a good idea.

* * *

When Carmine had finished relaying the events of last night, Goran's expression was much akin to a mudcrab being explained the principles of common sense; "Wait, what? The bodyguard drank it?"

"That's right."

"The Dunmer with the Mohawk and the battered iron armour."

"The very same."

"You're _sure?_"

"I was in the wardrobe, I saw the whole thing."

"Surprised you didn't get caught," Goran commented, though his tone soon turned from thoughtful to disapproving, "Anyway, I told you the plan would never work."

"But it _did_ work don't you see?" when Goran's silence indicated that he really _didn't_, Carmine explained: "They're perfect for each other! I mean, this is even better than what I originally intended. It could even work out long-term."

"How precisely are they perfect for each other? Ocato's... y'know, _pedigree._ The bodyguard's as far from as it's possible to be."

"And opposites attract, do they not? Trust me, I saw the chemistry there."

"I think that was just the aphrodisiac," Goran muttered,

"Nonono. Believe me, it'll work."

"Fine. If your plan went so well, why are you asking for my help?"

"Well, uh, see, Ocato figured out the wine was spiked. Actually, he figured out pretty much everything in about two minutes, but he doesn't know who was responsible. Which is why I need you to, er, make up a culprit."

"..._What?_"

"I don't mean take the blame yourself! It's just, well, you have military links. If you can pull a few strings and get one of the guards to say he caught someone, it'll save my hide."

"And supposing Ocato demands to see this culprit?"

"Say he got away. He was setting out the wine when the bodyguard came up, so he fled. A guard chased him but he got out through one of the windows. Plausible enough, right? So you'll say that for me?"

"Now hold on a minute," Goran held up a hand to still the conversation, "Why should I do all this? I wasn't involved in the plan, I don't have anything to hide. But I _will_ get in trouble if Ocato finds out I've been lying about the guards."

"_If _he finds out."

The chieftain crossed his arms, "That's a big if. Too big for me to agree to this, I think."

"But Goran-!"

"No. You made your bed, you should lie in it."

"But _Goran_, if Ocato finds out I set up the whole thing he'll just see the bodyguard as a ploy and then he won't fall madly in love with him and then they'll never get their happily ever after and _then_ the Chancellor will end up a bitter old spinster and he'll die alone, surrounded by cat figurines and beige clothing-"

"Alright, alright! You've made your point!" Goran talked over him loudly, covering his ears, "Fine, I'll call in some favours. But only because I don't want a spinster for a High Chancellor," and after a pause, he added: "Besides, Ocato wouldn't look good in beige."

* * *

"What do you mean, he got away?"

Goran toed the ground with his foot nervously. He wished he could say it was good acting, but he really _was_ breaking into a cold sweat. Ocato didn't get angry very often, but when he did, it was terrifying.

"Through one of the windows, sir. A guard chased but the culprit was too fast."

"And _all_ the guards in the city haven't been able to find this man since?" the Chancellor's voice was low, dangerous. Like the first rolling of thunder before a storm.

"No, sir. Had a hood to shadow his face, the guard couldn't get a look at him."

"And how do you know _this_ man was responsible for the wine? He could have been a coincidental thief."

"He wasn't carrying anything with him, and nothing's gone missing. But he had a... scent, according to the guard who chased. Sickly sweet, he said."

Ocato at least seemed to believe him; "But what on Mundus was the intention? It makes no sense to try and spike my wine and then just leave without doing anything."

"Well, uh, you mentioned sending the bodyguard up first, so maybe the culprit had to flee before he could finish setting everything up. Maybe he did intend to... do... something..." he trailed off as the Altmer's expression darkened. Certainly the implications of that statement were severely troubling, though Goran reminded himself that there never was any intruder, much less one with such potentially disturbing motives. "Anyway, it sounds as though your guard saved the day," he added quickly, hoping to help Carmine's cause.

It didn't calm Ocato down in the slightest. "This is terrible," he muttered, still angry, "It's bad enough that this man managed to bypass all the guards to my quarters and almost – almost – well who _knows_ what he planned to do – but on top of that he also got back out completely unscathed! Just how do you think the press will react to this?"

Goran tugged at his collar, "Uh... badly, sir?"

"_Wrong answer._ The press aren't going to find _out_, understood?"

"Crystal-clear, sir," he nodded fervently.

"Good. Because if the general public _do_ find out about this little fiasco, I'm holding you personally responsible. Keep that in mind."

The Orc waited until Ocato had stormed from the room to sigh his relief, the tension draining from his bulky frame. The door opened again and for a moment he was paralysed with the possibility that the Chancellor had returned to further vent – but instead it was Carmine, Olivier and Ra'Jani peering in anxiously at him.

"A-are you alright?" Olivier asked in a timid little whisper, "We heard everything. H-he's really s-scary when he's angry."

"S'alright," Goran grunted, though the tough guy act was somewhat redundant, given he was three shades paler than usual, sheened with perspiration, "He believed what I said, that's what matters. Just so long as _you-_" he looked pointedly at Ra'Jani, "Don't go telling the Black Horse Courier about all this."

Khajiit vocal chords, as it turned out, were not ideal for reproducing an innocent, angelic tone; "Why would Ra'Jani have anything to do with the Courier?"

"Because you're a gossip, that's why. I know damn well it was you who told them about the palace break-in. You're lucky Ocato never found out, he'd have skinned you alive."

She waved a careless hand, "Pfft. Promises, promises."

"I'm serious. If this aphrodisiac thing goes public, you've only got yourself to blame when the Chancellor turns you into a fashionable fur coat."

"Ra'Jani resents that statement!"

"If it's any consolation I'll be made into a pair of snazzy green boots to match-"

"What's important is that Ocato _doesn't_ know. Let's just keep it that way," Carmine interrupted swiftly before either could continue, "The bit when you talked about a sweet scent was good, by the way. That's what really convinced him, I think. How'd you know how aphrodisiac smells anyway?"

His argument forgotten, Goran suddenly looked sheepish, "Oh. Well, er, you know. I've come across it before."

"What, have you had to confiscate it from someone?"

"No, I mean, erm. _You know._ Personal use."

Carmine blinked wildly, "You've drank-?"

"Only the once! Well, maybe twice. Okay, a few times, but not on a regular basis. Alright, a semi-regular basis... what?" he added as the other three stared at him open-mouthed, although he was quite sure Ra'Jani was in fact grinning, "Oh come on. It's not illegal or anything, and there's no shame in it. It just increases stamina, spices things up a bit, that's all."

Carmine was still gawking, "I just... didn't think you were the type."

"Just because I'm a politician doesn't mean I have to lead a mundane, conservative lifestyle. You should know that better than anyone," Goran pointed out, "And _anyway_, we're getting off-subject. What are we going to do about Ocato?"

"What? Well, just... let the romance run its natural course, I guess."

Olivier raised a hand meekly, "P-pretty sure it's not going to be that easy."

"He's right, we'll need more than that. Tonight's the fourth gathering, right? We'll spy from the balcony again, see what's going on."

"Well I don't think we have to worry," Carmine declared confidently, "I'm sure everything is fine."

* * *

Everything was, in fact, as far from fine as it was possible to be.

He'd screwed things up, big-time. He figured he could make amends if he apologised and explained to Ocato that he really hadn't meant anything by it. Trouble was, every time he tried bringing up the subject, the Altmer hastily requested that he fetch him something, or take a note to someone, or just generally go somewhere else. It was a good sign that he was still trusted, but Modryn was pretty sure Ocato was just trying to skirt around 'the talk'.

The septim truly dropped when the evening came, and Ocato announced in a polite but unmistakably strained tone that he wouldn't need any help getting ready. So Modryn had sat glumly in his room, waiting for Ocato to finish dressing, which had taken even longer than usual. When the two of them finally _did_ set off for the fourth gathering it was in uncomfortable silence, and he had felt too awkward to bring up any apologies. The situation really wasn't helped by the fact that he had nothing to do for the evening except stand around and contemplate things. At least Ocato had a lot of talking and dancing to occupy him, and a lot of women to remind him which gender he preferred.

Of course, Modryn was pretty sure he preferred women – he'd never thought of a man in that way. Problem was, he'd never spent a lot of time thinking of women in that way either, not when he had Guild jobs to get on with. It had never really bothered him until now, but he had the nasty sinking feeling that he hadn't thought about women nearly as much as he should have done.

Still, that didn't make him gay... right?

Well no, of course it didn't. He wasn't attracted to men. He could admit that Ocato was quite good-looking, but that was just a casual observation, it didn't mean he was actually physically attracted to him. You could look at statues and paintings and call them beautiful without any physical desire being involved, this was exactly the same.

Not that he was comparing Ocato to a work of art or anything. Besides, there was more to his attractiveness than his appearance; it was more in the way he carried himself, his eloquent speech and refined mannerisms. Like right now, as he watched the man start up another dance, it was a statement of _fact_, not infatuation, that the Chancellor moved gracefully. Just because he understood _why_ almost everyone in the room was looking at Ocato with utter longing and the girl who had his attentions with utter loathing, that didn't mean he also felt that way.

He didn't want to be in a relationship with Ocato. It was as simple as that.

What he _did_ want, and currently this was the only thing he was absolutely sure of, was his friend back.

* * *

Carmine was not happy.

"What's going on? Where's the coy glances and smouldering eye contact? _Why aren't they dancing with each other?_"

"B-be quiet Carmine, someone will h-hear us!"

"They're on opposites sides of the room! They won't even _look_ at each other!"

"I did tell you," Goran pointed out, "One kiss doesn't make a relationship. They're not just going to fall into bed with each other."

"Well – well – well they _should!_" the Bosmer protested, though it soon gave way to a crestfallen slump, "Oh, this is a disaster..."

Goran squinted at Ocato as he danced, "His robes are a bit untidy tonight. Do you think the bodyguard usually helps him dress...?"

"An absolute disaster," Carmine moaned, curling in on himself.

"Is not so bad," Ra'Jani commented, though she did not look up from the notebook she was scribbling in, "Every good love story has obstacles. If everything ran smoothly, it would be dull to read, no?"

This cheered Carmine up a bit, "I guess so. There might still be hope yet- hold on, you're not even paying attention! What are you writing?"

"Eh? Nothing, nothing!" she said, hastily leaning away when Carmine tried to peer into her book, "Nothing important. Not at all."

"Well now I'm even _more_ curious. Let me see," what ensued was a brief wrestle between the two that almost made them fall from the balcony, "Let – me – see!"

"Is none of Bosmer's business! Give – back – don't read it!"

Carmine finally seized the book and began reading aloud, or trying to, "The anno – the amo – what does that say? I can't read your handwriting. Ow-" he winced when she resorted to clawing him, "Just tell me what it says! The something Khajiit something, that's all I can make out."

"_Fine_, Ra'Jani will say. Give the book back first." Only when it was safely back in her possession did she divulge: "_The Amorous Khajiit Stablehand._ Am re-writing _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ to have less maids in it. And less Argonians, ugh."

"Y-you don't like Argonians, Ra'Jani?"

"Like them? _Hah-_" she gave a disdainful snort, which had a touch of feline hiss to it, "Money, money, money, is all they care about. Spend all day scheming and plotting, know nothing of life's pleasures. No, Ra'Jani does not like them."

"What, not even Jelani?" Goran questioned.

"_Especially_ not Jelani. What does he care of art, or music, or love? All he thinks about is coin."

"Well he has to be money-minded, he oversees Cyrodil's economy," Carmine pointed out, then frowned as he remembered something, and turned to the Breton beside him. "Did you find out if he was up to anything dodgy, Olivier?"

"Wh-what? No, I... not yet."

"You'll need to get on with it, then. You go meet him tomorrow, understood?"

Olivier did not look at all happy about this, but conceded gloomily, "A-alright..."

"Good. We don't have time to procrastinate." The Wood Elf went back to watching Ocato and Modryn. After five or so minutes, however, he glanced sideways at Ra'Jani, who was writing again, "... So, can I have a look at your play?"

She scowled and clutched the book closer to her chest warily, "Is bad luck to show work before it is finished."

"Oh come on! You don't believe in any of that stuff, you just don't want to show me."

"That's right, Ra'Jani doesn't," she sniffed.

"Aww, please? I won't make fun of you or anything, promise." When that yielded nothing, he added: "You can't be sure your work's any good until you've had someone else look it over."

She didn't answer, and so Carmine sighed and went back to Ocato-watching. After another few minutes, however, he felt a book sliding into his lap. With a victorious grin, he picked it up and began reading:

* * *

ACT IV, SCENE III, CONTINUED.

M'ZAHI: Certainly not, kind sir! M'Zahi is here but to sweep your stables.

CRONTIUS CALTO: Is that all you have come here for, little one? My stables?

M'ZAHI: This one has no idea what it is you imply, master. M'Zahi is but a poor Khajiit stablehand.

CRONTIUS CALTO: So you are, my kitten, And a good one at that. Such fine claws and lustrous fur.

M'ZAHI: You embarrass M'Zahi, sir!

CRONTIUS CALTO: Fear not. You are safe here with me.

M'ZAHI: This one must finish his cleaning, sir. The stablemaster will have M'Zahi's head if he does not!

CRONTIUS CALTO: Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, oil my saddle.

M'ZAHI: But it is huge! It could take M'Zahi all night!

CRONTIUS CALTO: Plenty of time, my moonsugar, plenty of time.

END OF ACT IV, SCENE III.

* * *

"Uh..." Carmine said as he finished reading it, "That's... remarkably similar to the original."

"Of course. Is a good play, just needs less Argonians in it," Ra'Jani said, taking back her book to continue writing, "Ra'Jani's version still needs work, but it will be successful, I think."

"I'm still not sure about hooking Ocato up with his bodyguard," Goran said, watching the dour-looking Elf in the room below, "He's just not what I think Ocato would go for. I mean, if he was ever gonna get with another guy, the guy should at least be... I dunno, _pretty._ Female-looking," he squinted to get a better view, "Whereas he's definitely a man. Possibly the manliest-looking man I've ever seen in my life. Actually, I don't think you can _get_ more manly than that."

"Well, maybe that's what Ocato likes," Carmine pointed out, "He's surrounded by women who are as _womanly_ as it's possible to get, but he hasn't gone off with any of them yet, has he?"

"I guess. It's just... hard to picture, that's all."

"Oh? Ra'Jani finds it _very_ easy to picture," the Khajiit next to him spoke, "They just need a little... encouragement, is all. Which this one can do, if you'd like."

"Eh? What did you have in mind?"

Ra'Jani gave a sharp-toothed smile, and told them of her plan.

And in the ballroom below, Ocato and Modryn remained blissfully unaware.


	10. Chapter 10

If anyone is wondering why it's been so long since I posted something... it's December, which is when all of my university deadlines are. As I've been swamped in work, this chapter is pretty much all I've been able to do. It'll have to tide you over until Christmas, I'm afraid.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Ten**

Modryn was painting.

That was to say, he was sat in front of a blank canvas with a paintbrush and a rather grim frown. After the agonisingly awkward gathering last night, a whole evening spent trying to keep an eye on Ocato while also avoiding any lingering gazes, he had some serious unwinding to do. So far, the effort wasn't working.

He wasn't used to being stressed. The Fighters Guild took care of that: beating the snot out of goblins and trolls did wonders for relieving aggression, being paid was just an added bonus. But there were no Guild jobs here, no people to spar with, no creatures waiting just outside the city walls to start a fight with... all he had was the decidedly less manly hobby of painting as an outlet to his frustrations. As if his masculinity wasn't questionable enough already.

He'd spent all of the gathering thinking about it. He'd then spent all _night_ thinking about it as he'd tossed and turned and tried so hard to get to sleep. From the movements he'd heard from Ocato's room, the Chancellor hadn't succumbed to slumber either. He wanted to just apologise already, but even for someone as no-nonsense as himself, it was difficult to just bring it up: _Hey, sorry for practically molesting you. Can we be friends again now? _Even the thought of mentioning it made him cringe.

So, he wasn't going to think about it. He was going to sit here and paint nice, happy things that had nothing to do with Ocato. Determined, he began painting somewhat lopsided flowers underneath a cheerfully yellow sun. As an afterthought he added a dog that more closely resembled a squashed mudcrab, and then started on a nice, square house with nice square windows. He thought about adding some smiley-faced people but he didn't want it to look too childish.

And yet despite his best efforts to focus on the picturesque – if you used a bit of imagination – scene before him, his mind continued to wander back to that damned Altmer. It wasn't fair, he'd spent all last night going over that, and the only thing he'd gained from it were the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. Okay, he'd come to certain conclusions, but none of them had been particularly reassuring.

The thing was – he'd turned it over and over in his mind and – well, what if he really _was_ attracted to Ocato? He could already admit that the man was good-looking and graceful and refined and eloquent and he'd thought that those were just casual observations but they weren't, were they? Gods knew that if someone else told him all that and then insisted they weren't infatuated, he'd call them a liar.

And he couldn't even say it was purely physical attraction, just shallow, pent-up lust directed at Ocato due to his current lack of contact with the fairer sex, because what he liked best about Ocato wasn't what could be seen on the outside. It was those little nuances, from his wicked sense of humour to his fondness for sweetroll to his habit of meticulously neatening things when he was nervous. Okay, so he was the Chancellor's bodyguard, he spent almost all of his time around the man and was therefore going to notice these things, but was that really any excuse for just how closely he paid attention?

The boundary between friendship and more was startlingly thin – regardless of the genders involved – a fact only realised after the line had been crossed. After all, good friends already had everything required for a long-term relationship except the physical attraction. Only he _was_ physically attracted to Ocato, otherwise why would he have kissed him? Alright, alcohol had been involved, but it took more than one bottle of wine to make someone switch gender preference. It stood to reason, then, that deep down he was drawn to... alright, maybe not all men, but _this_ man.

Not that it made any difference. Even when Ocato ended the apparent marriage to his work and stopped being asexual, there was a long list of women ready to throw themselves at his feet. Well, Modryn certainly wasn't going to be like _that._ He was going to put this silly – _crush_ out of his head before it got any more ridiculous, he was going to forget the kiss ever happened, and he was going to kick the teeth in of any memories that dared remind him. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

He froze, mid brush-stroke, as he realised he'd added a red body to his yellow sun. Just a stick-man, but to him it instantly translated to an Altmer in scarlet robes.

"Oblivion-" he cursed, quickly smearing the still-wet paint together, into a safely unintelligible blur of murky orange.

Oranges...

"To hell with it," he snapped, and began almost violently packing his brushes away, vowing to burn the traitorous painting later.

* * *

Evening was fast approaching, and that meant Ocato had to get ready for the gathering.

He had just tonight to endure, and then it would all be over. But he couldn't allow his standards to grow lax – he had to be pristine, immaculate. Especially after yesterday, where he'd dressed himself with limited success; several people had commented on the untidiness of his robes, however tactfully. And he'd almost thrown his back out in the process of tying some of the knots, which had affected his dancing. He'd been able to dress solo when he was young but...well, he _wasn't_ young, not anymore. Not by a long stretch, for that matter. It wounded his pride to admit it, but yes, he needed help. Which meant asking...

He glanced over at the door to Modryn's adjoining room, where the man was currently located. He'd normally still be keeping watch, running errands and trying to coax Ocato into eating something, but now he was avoiding social contact altogether.

He was still conflicted over the kiss, no doubt. Ocato wanted to just tell him what had really happened, but how did you explain something like that? It couldn't be dropped into casual conversation, or subtly hinted at. He couldn't even put it in writing; if he phrased it too delicately Modryn could misinterpret it, but if he bluntly stated what happened it would just become a cold, formal notice of apology. He wanted to just say it, but words failed him completely.

… Maybe there was someone else he could ask to assist him...

There was bound to be a Legion guard around somewhere. Imperials were on the whole prudish, and having one of them help him dress was... embarrassing, but nowhere near the levels of awkwardness if Oreyn was involved. He ventured one floor down to the library, and when he found it empty, several floors down. It yielded nothing.

"Where _is_ everyone?" he demanded out loud, heading back to the library to search more thoroughly. Not a single guard... they weren't all down at the gathering already, were they? Granted, such an event required high security, but they had left the upper half of the palace at risk, if a thief got in now it would be easy pickings... Come to think of it, he wasn't sure if he wanted to invite any stranger in a Legion outfit up to his quarters to help him change. They could easily be an assassin, or the kind of person to drug someone with aphrodisiac.

There weren't even any Moth Priests about. They were on somewhat of a break, what with the gathering halting any paperwork to be archived, but they had all either retired to bed or just wandered off somewhere. One would think the library would be _less_ unnerving without the white-clad, blindfolded and near soundless Priests drifting about, but their absence was an eerie one. He hurried back to his room.

Which meant he had no alternative. There was only one person he could ask.

"Modryn?"

The warrior was stretched across his narrow bed, a book in his hands; when he saw his employer at the doorway he straightened up, but overall looked about as thrilled as Ocato felt at the social interaction. The Chancellor's request immediately retreated with its tail between its legs: "I – you're not busy are you? Yes, of course you are. Never mind, I'll find someone else-"

Modryn sat up fully then and placed the book aside, curiosity overriding discomfort, "No, it's fine. What did you want?"

He took a breath before plunging in, "I, ah, I could use some help with my robes for tonight, I'd do it myself, but, well..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely at a body well beyond peak physical condition, "Will you...?"

Oreyn nodded, and Ocato wasn't sure whether he should be relieved or even more nervous. Not that he had any reason to be, the man wasn't going to grope him at the first opportunity, for gods sake. His strained formality over the past two days proved that Modryn was uncomfortable with, if not outright repulsed by his actions towards Ocato. And understandably: the Dunmer was as overtly masculine as one would expect of the Fighters Guild, and their intimacy – however accidental it had been – had no doubt bruised his male pride.

Unfortunately, it bruised a little further when Ocato led him to the adjoining room and stared at him expectantly. When he stared back nonplussed, the Altmer had to tell him: "You'll need to turn around while I disrobe."

"Er – right. Of course. Just tell me when you're decent."

He made sure Modryn was turned around, unable to get a glimpse or catch any reflections of him while he slipped out of his standard red silk robes. It was silly, really, when he'd first enlisted Modryn to help him he'd quite casually stripped off before the man, albeit only down to his trousers, but there had never been any of this prudishness. Yet now after their encounter, it seemed indecent for Oreyn to see even a scrap of his skin.

"Ready," the tone was curt, clipped, probably not making Modryn feel any better, but Ocato wanted to get this over and done with. His Altmer robe, oversized and shapeless before it was worked into its correct form, was clutched around him like a shield. He did what he could himself, but for the many folds and fastenings at the back that he couldn't reach, he instructed Modryn as quickly as he could.

The elf's touches were light, unobtrusive, consciously so. But he was every bit as wound up as Ocato was – the Chancellor could practically feel the tension radiating off him in waves. A part of him was regretful, Modryn didn't deserve this stress, he hadn't done anything wrong. It was just a kiss, it wasn't like it had proceeded beyond that. It had even been quite a good kiss, all thing considered- oh dear. That thought was... more than a little inappropriate. He shut a mental door on it post-haste.

The worry that plagued him after that slip of the mind translated as strain in his body, which Modryn immediately noticed and made his touches lighter still. But now that he was forcing his thoughts to remain carefully blank, Ocato had nothing to concentrate on but those fingers ghosting over his robes, barely there and yet in their deftness drawing more attention than a regular touch would. It was not intended to be so, he knew, and yet he couldn't help but muse that it almost bordered on the sensual.

He shuddered. He would've liked to say it was out of fear or revulsion but in truth, he wasn't so sure.

"I'm sorry," Modryn blurted out.

That soon snapped him out of his thoughts: "Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry. For – for kissing you. I didn't, I mean, I don't know what came over me. Well, I was drunk, but that's really no excuse-"

He winced, "Modryn-"

But the mer continued on, releasing two days worth of anxiety in a tumble of breathless words: "-And I shouldn't have had it in the first place since it wasn't mine to take but I thought you wouldn't mind and it must've been _really_ strong wine because it normally takes more than one bottle to topple me like that-"

"Modryn!" Ocato interrupted, "The wine was spiked."

The man's babble immediately screeched to a halt, "... What?"

He hesitated. A part of him still wanted to bury his head in the sand, but it wouldn't be right. Oreyn deserved the truth. "The wine was drugged with aphrodisiac. I recognised the scent," he added by way of explanation. He didn't dare turn around, unsure of what Modryn's expression would be and unwilling to find out, "You weren't yourself when you – when you did that. I don't hold it against you."

There was a stunned silence, during which Ocato subconsciously held his breath, and then the warrior spoke: "Why didn't you tell me that yesterday?"

"It's a little difficult to slip something like that into everyday conversation-"

"You could've just sat me down and told me. There's no need to pull verbal punches with me, you know that-"

"I wanted to, but I – I couldn't. I didn't even know where to start. I'm not like you, I can't be so forthright."

"It's not the first time I've been told that," Modryn muttered, more to himself than Ocato, "I don't get it. What's so difficult about just speaking your mind? Isn't it more effort to weave up excuses and lies?"

That stung a little. Ocato at last looked over his shoulder, "If it's so easy, why have you held your silence for almost two days?" he asked quietly.

Oreyn's annoyed frown softened, and he glanced down at his feet. "... Touché," was the reluctant reply.

"Still, you were the one to bring the subject up. It would have gone on unsaid otherwise," the Chancellor conceded, turning around to face Modryn now that it seemed safe to do so, "It should be me apologising, not you. You're not to blame, whoever placed the wine there is."

"Who _did_ place the wine there, then? I mean... you didn't request...?"

"What? By the Nine, no!" was the flustered answer, "One of the palace guards saw a suspicious hooded man but wasn't able to catch him. If he's the culprit, he must've fled when he heard you coming upstairs."

"_If_ he's the culprit? You don't believe the guard?"

He gave a heavy, weary sigh, "I'm not sure what to believe anymore."

Such was the life of a politician. You had the whole world hanging onto your next word, hundreds of sycophants eager to seduce or bribe their way into your good books – and only a handful of people you could trust not to stab you in the back. Given how many friends he'd either pushed away, lost contact with, or simply out-lived in his long elven existence, the only person left happened to be standing in front of him. When he thought about it, that was actually rather pathetic.

"Supposing it was this mystery figure, then," Oreyn said slowly, unaware of his employer's gloomy introspection, "Why would he want to slip you an aphrodisiac of all things?"

"I honestly don't know. He could have been a thief or even an assassin trying to distract me. He could have been a protester or a political rival who wanted to humiliate, or send a threatening message, though I haven't received any demands. It could even have been a... somewhat twisted admirer," he shivered despite the room's warmth, "There are all manner of implications, some more disturbing than others. I'd rather not think about it. The important thing is, it never happened," and as an afterthought, he added: "Which I have you to thank for."

"Not really. If you can recognise aphrodisiac by scent, you would've known not to drink the wine."

"I may well have been too tired or careless to notice. So in a way, that kiss of yours saved me from a far worse fate."

It was not an indecent remark, though a questionable one that perhaps he should've kept to himself. He could almost see the cogs and gears whirring inside Modryn's brain, though he was clueless as to what the mer was actually thinking. If he intended to answer he must've thought better of it, and he instead said: "Is that why you were so strung up yesterday? Not just from trying to tell me about it – you're worried about the culprit?"

"He bypassed all the guards to my quarters, left wine spiked with enough aphrodisiac to frenzy a dremora and then escaped again unnoticed and unscathed. Of course I'm worried," was his reply, though the agitation wasn't aimed at Oreyn, "What does this say about palace security? I went down a few floors earlier and I couldn't see a single guard, not one! Gods, it's a small miracle I haven't already been plundered or assassinated or... or drugged by some strange man with who knows what intentions..." he trailed off, the silence speaking for itself.

"It shook you up, huh," it was a statement, not a question. Modryn's understanding and low, quiet tone soothed the nerves he hadn't even been aware of. He neither denied nor confirmed, but Modryn already had his answer.

"I suppose I have no right to complain. I used to spike people's wine all the time when I was an apprentice. You could even call this comeuppance."

"That was just a prank, though," the Dark Elf pointed out, "You never did it with malicious intent."

Ocato shook his head; "No. Never malicious."

"There you go, then. It's not comeuppance or payback or divine intervention. Just some troublemaking snot trying to stir things up, and succeeding if you let this get to you," he was told, "As you said, he didn't _do_ anything, that's what matters. Now put those stupid notions of guilt out of your head, alright?"

He smiled, though it was for Modryn's benefit, "Brusque as ever. I missed that, these last two days."

"We're going to forget the kiss, then?" asked Modryn. There was something odd about the tone of voice, a certain look in his eyes, but Ocato couldn't identify it. Maybe he was just imagining things.

"Let's not talk about it again. I don't want our friendship jeopardised," and when Oreyn was silent, he added with a vulnerability he couldn't quite disguise, "We... are still friends, aren't we?"

That got him a frown; "What? Of course we are. Why wouldn't we be?"

"I thought you'd be more annoyed that I didn't tell you about the wine for two days."

"Yeah, well... I'm the blunt one and even I wasn't sure how to bring it up. No hard feelings," the man mumbled awkwardly, "We'll go back to the way things were before."

For the rest of the night, Ocato wondered why he hadn't been as relieved to hear those words as he should've been.

* * *

As soon as Ocato and Modryn had headed downstairs, there was a faintly relieved sigh. Four council members appeared out of thin air, one of whom was clutching a basket full of invisibility potion.

"Bah," muttered Carmine.

Goran glanced at him, "Why 'bah'? They made up, didn't they?"

"They agreed to forget it ever happened. I'm not sure if that counts as success."

"No, they agreed not to talk about it again," he pointed out slyly, "There's a difference."

This brightened Carmine up a bit, "Hey, you're right. So that means... secretly they must he harbouring steamy thoughts for each other!"

"Er, I don't think it's gotten to that point yet," Goran hastened to add, "It needs time to develop, maybe the occasional nudge in the right direction, like-"

"Like using Eye of Fear to chase away Legion soldiers, yes?" Ra'Jani suggested in a self-satisfied purr.

"Except now I gotta come up with a reason why all the upper palace guards suddenly fled the building. Someone's bound to start asking questions, and if word gets to Ocato..."

"You could always blame the mystery culprit again-"

"_No,_" Goran cut off Carmine at once, "Did you miss the part where Ocato admitted how much the intruder scared him? I'm not putting him through a second trauma."

"It's not like anything happened to him. Because the intruder doesn't _exist, _if you'll recall."

"Yeah, but the Chancellor doesn't know that. As far as he's aware, some guy broke into his home with the possible intention of ra- of taking advantage of him, and very nearly succeeded at that. I'd be frightened too," somewhat contradictory, given he was a seven-foot wall of muscle, but Goran went on: "No more using a fake intruder as a scapegoat. In fact no more drug use at all, aphrodisiac or otherwise. Someone's going to get hurt."

"But _Goran-_"

"It damages the cause anyway. If Ocato hadn't had to worry about the mystery intruder on top of everything else, he could've made up with the bodyguard without our... help," he glanced over at Ra'Jani.

The elf sighed, "Fine, fine. We don't need the aphrodisiac anymore anyway."

"Can we s-stop using invisibility potion as well?" Olivier spoke up at last, shifting the weight of his laden basket over one arm, "It's neither cheap nor easy to make, you know."

"I don't see why we had to use it for this in the first place. We could've just spied on them at the gathering to see if they'd made amends, we didn't have to stand here and listen to them."

Carmine shrugged; "Ra'Jani insisted, not me. Ask her."

The Khajiit straightened up as everyone turned their attention to her, "Well, is a matter of reassurance, yes? Now we know they have definitely made up. No doubts. Besides," she added in a dreamy murmur, "This one got to see Ocato undressing. Such long legs and lovely golden skin."

Carmine gaped at her, "What the – you mean you just wanted to leer at Ocato?"

"It's not Ra'Jani's fault the Chancellor is pretty!"

"We sh-shouldn't have spied on them, really," Olivier said, tugging nervously at his collar, "It was a private moment. It wasn't our b-business to listen in."

"Well it _is_ our business. We're trying to set them up, aren't we?" was Carmine's answer.

"No, he's right. We shouldn't go nosing anymore than we need to. We might, y'know, ruin the magic."

"Good gods. Is that you actually _agreeing_ that a relationship between them would work?"

The Orc councillor shrugged, "They're as different as chalk and cheese, but – I dunno – there was something there. I guess it could happen."

"It _will_ happen. I'll do whatever it takes-" Carmine began heatedly but at the twin glares of Olivier and Goran, faltered a little, "-Within reason, of course."

* * *

Oh, this was not good.

It was the fifth and final night of the gathering. This, combined with the desperation at four days failure to snag Ocato meant everyone was looking their very best this evening. Hair gleaned and glistened with ornaments. Exquisite robes shifted like liquid silk. Golden skin shimmered in the low light. Modryn had never seen so many beautiful people clustered in one place, and he wasn't paying attention to any of them.

He was still attracted to Ocato.

It stood out like a beacon amidst all his other muddled thoughts, so blindingly obvious that he was certain everyone else could see it too. The Chancellor was currently taking a break from dancing, now engaged in conversation with four women at once, all of whom were trying to out-do each other. He wasn't returning any of the coy, flirtatious looks, but he seemed considerably more at ease than he had yesterday, so Modryn could only assume he was enjoying the attention.

Was he jealous of Ocato, to be able to charm women so easily? Or was he jealous of the women, being charmed? He had the sinking feeling that it was the latter.

He wasn't angry at Ocato for not telling him about the wine. Even _he'd_ struggled to breach the subject, and he was the kind of man who had no trouble breaching things whatsoever. Having said that, he really, really wished he'd known the whole story before coming to any conclusions. If he'd been aware all along that he been drugged, not drunk, he could've dismissed the lingering warm thoughts as aphrodisiac and continued to think of Ocato in a perfectly normal, non-intimate way. As it stood, he'd already made his mind up that he found the man appealing. And his mind was a notoriously stubborn thing once set.

Had he kissed Ocato purely due to the aphrodisiac, or was he genuinely attracted to him? Or did he just _think_ he was genuinely attracted to him because he assumed he'd been merely drunk, when he'd actually been inclined to pounce on the nearest living body? He didn't know anything about aphrodisiac, didn't know if it could make you do things you definitely wouldn't ordinarily consider or just merely amplified your own existing desires. Didn't know if it left any long-term after-effects, because as he watched Ocato he _hated_ it, but he couldn't deny that his heart was beating slightly faster than normal. What belonged to him, and what belonged to that damned wine?

Not, he thought sourly, that it made any difference. Whether the attraction was genuine or not, it couldn't be allowed to exist; Ocato wasn't interested, and had evidently already put the kiss behind him if that new dance he was starting up was any indication. Logical thing to do was to just put any untoward thoughts out of his head, like observing how much Ocato suited the colour blue, or how elegantly he moved, or how his chestnut hair caught the light-

Wait. Damnit.

He clenched his teeth and bit back a curse. This wouldn't do. Not at all.


	11. Chapter 11

Carmine and co. have been getting all the attention, so it's about time I focus more on the opposite team. Time to finally find out what Jelani's been up to!

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Eleven**

"Thank heavens," Ocato groaned, entering his quarters and gratefully sinking into the butter-soft comfort of his bed, "That went on far, far longer than it should have done. Everyone knows the last dance is at midnight... is _supposed_ to be at midnight, hmph. Young Altmer these days."

Modryn walked into the room after him, although perhaps 'mooched' would have been a better word. He was not a man who often indulged in feeling sorry for himself, but in the circumstances he felt it was appropriate. Well-earned, even.

He had assumed Ocato wouldn't notice his somewhat sulky behaviour, but- "Are you alright? You were quiet all the way up the stairs." Of course. That man didn't miss a thing.

"M'fine. Just figured you'd want a bit of peace and quiet after all that."

A lie, albeit a white one. Ocato probably knew it, but was evidently too tired to pry, instead answering with, "You have that right. Five days... ah, my cheeks hurt from forcing all those smiles," he rubbed one side of his face tenderly.

Modryn found himself admittedly surprised, "Those were faked? I thought you were having the time of your life."

"Mmph. You try attending a few hundred mandatory parties, see if you still find them fun."

"Could've fooled me."

"A bad actor makes a terrible politician. That's just how it is." Finally, the Chancellor hauled himself upright from the bed, "Could you help me out of these robes? I don't want them to get torn."

Nodding numbly, Oreyn waited until Ocato was stood and facing away from him before he began to pull at the robes' intricate knots. Ocato was silent, but relaxed; they'd agreed to forget about their kiss and just like that, the awkward tension that had filled the mer's frame earlier was gone. Either he had a selective memory or he was, as he'd said, just that good of an actor.

Modryn couldn't lay claim to either talent. He tried not to let it show in his movements, but there was still that unfamiliarity between them, the lack of easy, casual banter they'd shared before. He wanted desperately to amend it, but didn't trust himself to speak without making a fool of himself, as usual. He'd always been a little jealous of people who had a way with words, but never more so than now.

But he couldn't just _forget_, not like Ocato. Not with the other man in such close proximity, the warmth of him radiating out from beneath liquid robes. The scent of sweet oranges and something else, a lingering under-layer of something subtle and woodsy, like cypress. Shadows danced over silk and skin as the overhead torches flickered, and the smooth slope of his shoulders glowed in the firelight-

"Ocato," his spoke hoarsely, "Can I take a week off?"

Caught off-guard, Ocato turned his head. "Excuse me?"

"I'd like a week off. To recover from the gathering and all. I'm pretty tired," he answered, sentences short and staccato, "I'm entitled to that, aren't I?"

"Well of course, but-" the Chancellor dropped his voice to a lower, quieter tone, as though there could be someone listening in, "Is this about the wine?"

"The what?"

"The wine."

"What wine?"

"The-" and he caught on, "-Never mind. Yes, of course you can take a week off, I'll arrange a horse for you. Back to Chorrol, I assume?"

"I have some old friends to see," more specifically, some old friends to consult. This attraction was getting out of hand; he needed someone as brusque and no-nonsense as himself to snap him out of it, and you only found those type of people in the Fighters Guild.

Provided they didn't laugh their backsides off at him, of course.

* * *

It had been five days of drinking, dancing, and tactfully ignoring any blatant flirting, and Ocato was _exhausted._ Reason dictated that he should be well and truly asleep by now. But his mind was quite capable of defying reason when it wanted to, which was why he was still wide awake, kept up by worry.

He'd endured the gathering, he didn't have that much paperwork to see to tomorrow, and his precious, extremely expensive Altmer robes were carefully stowed away, in no danger of being torn. But his thoughts were instead directed to the presumably sleeping Dunmer next door.

It was unrealistic to expect the friendship to be so easily mended, although he'd thought telling Modryn to forget about the kiss would have at least helped matters. He'd assured the man that it wasn't his fault and that no offence was taken... so why did Modryn still seem so uncomfortable? Even asking for a week off, which was _not_, Ocato knew, due to tiredness, but the need to get away from the tower, from politics, from _him._ No, the friendship wasn't mended yet. He could only hope that the damage wasn't permanent.

And all over a kiss, of all things. It wasn't even that big of a deal.

Well, it was to Modryn, apparently. Maybe it was one of those Fighters Guild machismo things. Everyone in the Guild oozed testosterone – even the women – so maybe accidentally lip-locking another man had somehow bruised the warrior's masculinity. Then again, he'd already stated that he dismissed sexuality in favour of fighting skill, so it figured he would shrug off any comments over his own preferences, if they ever arose. He _couldn't_care about the status quo, since he was well past the expected age to settle down with a wife and children. Even a long-lived mer could only stay single for so long before people started to speculate.

Come to think of it, why _was _Modryn still single? He wasn't the best-looking man in the world, but not hideous either. Alright, he could be a little blunt and lacking in etiquette, but Ocato knew far less likeable people who had still managed to get hitched. Marseius, for example – gods knew how his wife managed to put up with him, but as far as he knew, the marriage was a happy one. If Marseius could do it, practically anyone could.

So Oreyn's choice to stay single had to be a deliberate one... perhaps he, like Ocato, was simply too engrossed in his career for such things. He couldn't think of any other reason; it wasn't down to religion, or any fear of intimacy. Actually, Modryn had a fair bit of experience, if the kiss was any indication-

He blinked wildly in the darkness for a few seconds, his thoughts having screeched to a halt. An awkward silence filled his mind, much like the aftermath of an inappropriate remark at a high-end dinner party. Meekly, he backtracked his thoughts, mentally erasing that last sentence. Like a hasty apology, it didn't change the fact that he'd still said it – well, thought it. At that moment, he was immensely glad he hadn't mused aloud.

So now he was worrying about Modryn for entirely different reasons. Great.

No, no... there was no need to get stressed over it. He was just tired and fed up of the company of young, shallow Altmer. The accidental remembrance of that night, that kiss, was just a way to... to take his mind off of the gathering. Yes, that was it. No cause for alarm.

Besides, the man was going back to Chorrol for a week tomorrow. After narrowly dodging the innumerable attempts at seduction, he would've liked someone honest and _safe_ to talk to, someone to look after him and bring him sweetroll while he settled back into his paperwork-laden routine, but... this was for the best, really. The break from Oreyn would give him the chance to sort himself out, so he didn't have anymore untoward thoughts.

With that in mind, the High Chancellor pulled his blankets a little tighter around himself, and determinedly concentrated on contracts, tax forms and lectures from the Minister for Health and Safety until he finally fell asleep. Which in turn led to some very bizarre dreams involving the latter, and the vague sensation of a wine-tinged kiss.

* * *

From the palace, the near-hundred guests of the Altmer gathering filed dejectedly out into the night, none of them having secured Ocato's hand in marriage. Whereas across the other side of the city, the night life was only just beginning.

The Waterfront thrived after sundown. What was a raggedy shamble of the poor, the desperate and the broken became a lively den of thieves, gamblers and prostitutes. The latter lingered outside, lured in customers with sultry words and scandalous clothing, but those in the know went to the brothels, to the escorts too good for the streets.

The person currently travelling unseen through the Waterfront was in the know. He knew this path, past the blackmarket stalls and into the quieter recesses of the district. He knew the seemingly innocuous shack in front of him. He knew the Argonian waiting for him in the obscurity of its shade.

"There you are," it was somewhat unnerving that Jelani knew exactly where he was, despite the invisibility potion, "I assume you have good reason as to why you are late. No matter. Come inside."

He did so, the remnants of invisibility fading away to reveal the pale skin, fair hair and ostentatious clothing that could only belong to a Breton. Still, he remained silent until Jelani had led him past the shack's hidden door, through a dimly-lit underground passage. Everything was so secretive and almost ritualistic that he half-expected to emerge in one of the Dark Brotherhood's notorious – but impossible to find – sub-surface sanctuaries, but instead the twisting earthen corridor ascended once more.

He was in, if he mapped out the Waterfront streets in his head, one of the boarded-up warehouses, only it _wasn't_ a warehouse, but quite unmistakably a brothel. You would, in fact, struggle to find anywhere more brothel-like: the place was draped in silks and veils, decorated with flickering candles, strewn cushions and risqué statues straight out of a boudoir. The effect was all in all rather gaudy and tasteless, but then the visitors here were hardly men of taste.

The last room Jelani led him to was quite the opposite, orderly and minimalist, the shelves lined with mundane items such as accounting books and inkwells. An office, he realised as the Argonian seated himself behind a desk, gesturing to an adjacent chair as though conducting an interview.

"Now. You wished to discuss something with me?"

"I have some questions," he fidgeted with the lace on his coat and worried at his lower lip, "Jelani, I don't understand... you practically run the Waterfront, and yet you stand against us. Wouldn't getting rid of the gender barriers _help_ your business?"

"We went over this when I voted against Carmine's idea to legalise prostitution. The motion failed, brothels became taboo all over again and consequently busier than ever," Jelani told him with a touch of impatience, "Forbidden things are all the more enticing – you of all people should know that. Male prostitutes will be all the rage as soon as homosexuality is made illegal-"

"_If_ it is made illegal."

Reptilian eyes narrowed dangerously, "_When_ it is made illegal, which it will be. If you came here to try and sway my vote, it won't work. And don't you dare try and coerce me or I'll make sure everyone in Cyrodil knows what you've been up to."

"A-alright! I just thought that legalisation would make your... _workers_ more accessible, then there'd be no need for all this secrecy."

"But secrecy means more coin. Tch, this is why I am in charge of economy and you are in charge of city aesthetics."

"Low blow," he mumbled, squirming in his seat, "But really... the invisibility potion and the underground passages and the _hassle_ just to hire a bed with extra service for the night?"

Jelani paused at that, his brow tightening into a frown; "You're not Olivier."

He blinked, startled, "What?"

Quicker than he could react, the Argonian had leapt over the desk, a dagger pulled from one of his sleeves and pressed into his throat. "You are _not _Olivier," he repeated in a low hiss, "I do not take kindly to imposters. Reveal your true self or I will _carve_ the information out of you."

His expression changed from characteristic owlish bewilderment to something cooler, calmer, and infinitely more dangerous. When he spoke, his voice definitely did _not_ belong to a timid, stuttering Breton: "Jelani. There is no need for such violence."

Jelani pulled back a little, recognising the tone, "...Aluin?"

The clever illusion spell melted away, changing the user from petite and frail to tall and slender. Skin became darker, features sharper. Hair lengthened and tinted from ash-blonde to spun gold.

"You know, it is generally considered impolite to hold a blade against someone's neck," he remarked quite calmly.

Aluin and Jelani were on the same side, but to call them allies would have been inaccurate. Jelani kept his knife exactly where it was. "Not until you explain yourself."

Undaunted by the threat to his life, Aluin explained nonchalantly, "I was spying on Olivier, originally; I saw him talking to you and wished to find out your involvement. Disguising myself seemed the best way to get the truth out you," a pause, "How did you find out I was an imposter? I thought I perfected everything."

"You did," he grudgingly admitted, "I was not aware you specialised in illusion... nor that you could impersonate voices and mannerisms so well. But Olivier has a somewhat unique relationship with the workers here. He would never refer to them as objects," he was told, "Where is the _real_ Olivier, then? He asked me to meet him, unless that was your doing as well."

The Altmer shook his head, "No, that was him. Although I did intercept his last-minute cancellation message. There was a minor fire in the arboretum, he's still salvaging what plants he can."

"An emergency like that, right when you needed an opportunity to trick me? How very fortunate," Jelani arched a scaled brow, "Do you know any fire spells, perchance?"

He hummed thoughtfully, "A few."

"I thought as much," at last, he took his dagger away from Aluin's throat, "Well then. Now we have cast aside our pretences, what did you want to know?"

Aluin waited until Jelani had re-seated himself on the other side of the desk before he answered: "Your motives for standing against Carmine. I knew it was not for reasons of morality, but to discover you as kingpin of the Waterfront? That I did not expect."

"And why not? I oversee every other aspect of Cyrodil's economy, why not the forbidden trades as well?"

"What else do you deal in? Skooma?"

"_Skooma_," to his surprise, Jelani's voice emerged in a low hiss, thick with disgust, "No, not that. Anything and everything else yes, but not that."

"I would have thought it a lucrative trade."

"Bah, no. Skooma is worthless, should be destroyed on sight. Skooma dealers and crafters too."

"But it brings in a great deal of money. You've admitted yourself that your first allegiance is to coin."

"And Skooma turns men weak and useless, unwilling to earn their wage. They waste away like corpses, and then not only do I lose _their _business, but everyone else is driven away by the Waterfront turning into a filthy rats nest," he spat, "No, I do not sell it. I _restrict_ it. I cannot stop all the Skooma rats squirming in, but I catch them eventually," at Aluin's incredulous look, he asked, "What, you thought the Legion stopped all the smugglers? Imperials with heads full of nothing? They catch one, maybe two rats. Without me, the Waterfront would be rife with Skooma."

"I didn't think you would be so strongly against it," Aluin murmured, "The Khajiit base their entire society around it, after all."

"Do not assume that Argonians and Khajiit are in any way alike," Jelani warned lowly, adding in a disdainful snort, "_Khajiit._ Hah! Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure, is all they think about. Spend all day indulging themselves instead of working. Especially that Ra'Jani. I am yet to understand how she ended up on the Council."

"She is well-respected among her peers, as I understand it."

"Her peers all take and even _worship _Skooma. That tells you everything you need to know about her and Khajiit culture... if you can even call it that, ugh," he scowled, "Let us not talk of Khajiit anymore. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

"Then back to your... trade," Aluin agreed, "Even if you are against Skooma, you still deal in prostitution, which is illegal, partially thanks to your own efforts. That's a lot of risk for a well-known politician."

"All business takes a lot of risk. Besides, this way I can influence trade, make the forbidden things more forbidden and thus more popular."

"So you stand against homosexuality to _encourage _it?"

"Homosexuality will continue regardless of the laws – the only difference is whether it is paid for or not," Jelani told him, "I know what you are trying to do, to stamp it out of High Elf culture. It cannot be done."

"Aren't you trying to do the exact same thing with Skooma?"

He sighed irritably, "That also cannot be done. Kill all the rats and more flood in, no rules or regulations will change that. Same for homosexuality – forbid it, and it simply continues in places such as these."

"Please. No self-respecting Altmer would visit a prostitute, much less a male one. We are a monogamous race."

A tut, "You would be surprised how many upstanding elves we get in here."

Aluin leaned forwards, eyes sharp as a dagger; "Their names?"

"Customer confidentiality. Besides," he said, "They all go back to their wives at the end of the night. Better than having a full-time same gender partner, yes?"

Now Aluin was a perfectionist, and did not like to compromise. A visit to a prostitute – of either gender – wasted energy that should belong exclusively to one's spouse. So when he answered, "I suppose that is better, yes," he mentally added: _For now. _There had to be a way to eradicate homosexuality completely instead of just forcing it underground. But that was a problem to be tackled later.

"I am sure your reputation for confidentiality would not be damaged," he suggested carefully, "If I had... just one of your customers imprisoned?"

"I'm not giving you any names-"

"I don't need them. I have enough evidence for persecution without your help," Aluin informed him, "I'm talking about Olivier."

"Olivier?" Jelani repeated, and then: "No."

"What do you mean, no? Soliciting prostitutes is an offence. If we get him thrown out of the council then we outnumber Carmine."

The Argonian shook his head, "Olivier has never slept with any of the workers. I told you it was a unique relationship – he wines and dines them as though they were courting, but he does not bed them. He essentially pays for a temporary spouse."

"That's... unusual," Aluin admitted, "But still, illegal, and enough to get him suspended."

"You misunderstand. The workers _like_ Olivier; not only do they spend the evening being pampered and adored, but they are asked nothing in return. They would not take kindly to losing his business."

"So?"

"_So_, if he gets imprisoned, they will boycott," Jelani explained impatiently, "If they boycott, I lose a lot of money. If I lose a lot of money, I become very upset and decide that male prostitutes aren't worth the investment after all," he leaned over his desk, eyes boring into Aluin's, "I then switch to Carmine's side and it is _you_ who becomes outnumbered. Are we quite clear?"

Aluin stared back, voice tight, "What a great deal of care you put into your customers, Jelani."

Without breaking eye contact, Jelani replied: "It's that personal touch that makes all the difference."

"You threatened me earlier when you thought I was Olivier."

"Empty words, but he doesn't know that."

At last, Aluin yielded, "...Fine. Olivier is to be left alone. What about the others?"

"Do what you like. I have no involvement with them," the businessman said, "Goran has earned the respect and trust of the people, it will be difficult to de-throne him. That perverse Khajiit freely admits to being debauched. Carmine, though... find some dirt on him and the opposition will fall apart. But you will, I am sure, have to put those illusion skills of yours to good use to obtain it," he tapped his claws thoughtfully against the desk, "Meanwhile, you should pursue your plans of having Ocato wed. I hear the gathering did not go so well."

A sigh from Aluin, "The most beautiful, manipulative, high-class Altmer women in Tamriel, and he didn't take an interest in any of them."

"Perhaps he does not want high-class. Go for someone more demure, humble... all the easier to use as a pawn."

Aluin nodded, remembering Ocato's scruffy, mohawked Dunmer bodyguard. The only interaction he'd seen between them was that _Are you alright?_ at the end of the open council session, but it was enough to tell him that they at least got on. Odd, really. Like a pedigree befriending a mongrel. But if those were the qualities the Chancellor agreed with, that was what to look for when searching for his future wife. There was hope for seeing Ocato married yet.


	12. Chapter 12

I've realised after re-playing Oblivion that I've had Kurz' personality wrong all along – it's his brother Lum that's the cheerful and upbeat one, Kurz is the more dour pessimist. There's not much I can do to change it now, so I'll ask you to overlook it.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Twelve**

"Here's your horse. A Cheydinhal black, should get you there and back in no time," Ocato said, sounding a great deal more cheerful than he actually felt as he led the way to the stables. He didn't strictly speaking _have_ to see Modryn off; a messenger could have guided him to his horse, but he was trying to cling onto the man's company for as long as possible, knowing he would be a week deprived.

"I'd have been fine with a paint horse you know," his counterpart eyed the glossy steed warily, "Or no horse at all."

"I'm hardly going to make you _walk_ to Chorrol, Modryn."

"I like walking," was the muttered reply, "It's bracing."

More that he liked not paying for a horse, Ocato suspected. Given the rusty, slightly dented iron armour he was wearing – and would probably continue to wear until it literally fell off him – Modryn never bought new things unless he absolutely had to. He was the type of person who squeezed septims so hard they cried _more_ septims.

But he was also the type of person who hated seeing things go to waste. So if there was one way to ensure he made use of the horse... "You might as well take it with you. It'll just sit here doing nothing otherwise, wasting away..."

"The exercise should do it some good," Modryn grunted, conceding. Ocato just about managed to hide his victory smirk.

"I packed you some supplies as well. Food and soaps, just to see you through the week."

"I can find food and soap in Chorrol."

"Oh? I suppose I'll just have to throw it away then..."

"I'll take it," he accepted the offered bag, albeit grudgingly.

"I also have an entourage for you," a snap of his fingers summoned several Legion soldiers seemingly from nowhere, each one blandly polite-looking, "To keep an eye on you, make sure you stay safe."

"A bodyguard doesn't need bodyguards, Ocato."

"Well, if you'd rather they stay here doing nothing..."

Unfortunately, the trick didn't work a third time; "Then they can stay here looking after _you_ while I'm gone. I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

"But – oh, alright," he wasn't likely to convince Modryn otherwise. The guards were for surveillance rather than protection, to find out what Modryn got up to on his week off – more out of curiosity than any suspicion. He was used to knowing what went on among his people, but in this case he had to admit that it wasn't any of his business. "Dismissed," he waved idly at the soldiers, who promptly soldiered off to do other soldier-y things.

Oreyn climbed atop his horse with the uneasiness of someone who vastly preferred travelling on foot. Ocato waited until he was relatively settled before asking in a tentative tone: "Modryn... you _are_ going to come back after one week, aren't you?"

That got him a frown, "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"I... it feels as though I've inadvertently offended you in some way," Ocato said carefully. That could've meant overworking him or shunning him these past five nights, although of course they both knew he meant the aphrodisiac.

Oreyn sighed, "You haven't done anything. I'm just homesick, that's all."

Ocato wanted to say _Take as much time as you need,_ to allow full recuperation. But he needed him working again as soon as possible; firstly because there was still civil unrest, even if the protests had died down. Secondly because he feared more palace break-ins – that was twice now, what happened to the tower's so-called impregnable security? – and possibly more wine incidents, there had been some quite ruthlessly ambitious Altmer at the gathering. And thirdly because... well because he would miss the man's company. He needed cheering up just as much as Modryn did.

"I won't take any longer than a week, I promise. You'll barely notice I'm gone, what with all the paperwork you'll be buried under."

"Oh yes. That," he pulled a sour face, and Modryn actually laughed. It was strange, he'd never noticed just how pleasant the sound was before now. In turn, that gave him an unidentifiable ache as they exchanged their farewells. He lingered at the stable gate long after Modryn had rode off and out of sight.

* * *

He remained on his steed for as long as he could physically withstand before finally dismounting, walking the rest of the way to Chorrol slightly bow-legged. He wasn't good with horses.

The path grew steeper and stonier, the forests thickening as the midlands turned to mountains. The journey was uneventful; no feral wildlife in the woods, no daedra around the blackened ruins of Oblivion gates, long since closed. The only company was the well-behaved horse trotting along next to him. The problem with all this peace and quiet, however, was that there was little distraction from his incessant worries.

Mostly about how the others would react to his situation. Surprise and shock were a given, but he hoped none of them would be repulsed, at least. They were all decent people, but Chorrol was a conservative town with conservative views, and he wasn't sure how deep the prejudices ran. Even worse than disgust would be ridicule; he could put up with being disliked, but not disrespected.

By the time he actually reached Chorrol, he was starting to regret the whole thing. He could just turn around, head back to the Imperial City and-

No, no. He'd come all the way here, he couldn't back out now. Besides, the sun had long since set and he was tired, so staying the night was almost compulsory. He had a week to bring up his troubles, no need to do it right this instant – no need to do it at all, in fact. This was a personal issue and he could keep it that way if he wished.

He left the horse at the stables, paying a few septims to the sleepy owner. Surrounded by hills, Chorrol offered a better view of the night sky than the city, a glimmering patchwork of stars. The air was fresh and cool, tinged with the scent of pine. _Home._ He didn't mind his new life, but there was a comforting familiarity here that couldn't be replaced.

There was light emitting from the windows of the Guild, and that meant someone was still up and about. A quick visit couldn't hurt, just to say hello before heading off to his own house... unwilling to be deterred by a few frayed nerves, he headed over, opening the doors and strolling in as he'd done hundreds – no, thousands of times before.

And... everything was the same. The same armour and weapons on display, the same paintings on the walls. The same old wooden floor, with the same spots still making the same creak as he walked over them. The same smart-mouthed Orc he hadn't seen in so long, sat facing away from him at the dining table, pouring over what looked like paperwork.

"We're closed right now, if you want to join up or hire you'll have to come back tomorrow," he called out carelessly, not bothering to turn around. Modryn decided that a traditional Guild-comrade hello was in order; he approached stealthily, avoiding the noisier floorboard, then stuck his finger in the fighter's ear.

This had the desired effect – Kurz yelped and just about fell off his seat at the unexpected sensation; "What- aARGH! What the hell do you think you're do-"and then he saw the culprit, "_Modryn?_"

"Serves you right for sitting with your back to the door," Modryn answered, grinning, "Basic common sense, anyone could have come in and clonked you over the head. You letting your standards slip, boot?"

Kurz' stunned look gave way to laughter, "And here I thought palace life would make you soft. You haven't changed a bit."

"Neither has the Guildmaster, I see," he looked at the forms scattered across the table, "Still getting other people do his paperwork. Where is he, anyway?"

"On some sort of pilgrimage, last I checked. You know what he's like," Kurz told him, shaking his head, "How are you? Are you on a break, or did you get fired already?"

"Cheek," Modryn swatted at him, "No, I got a week off. _Earned _a week off, I should say. Being a Chancellor's bodyguard involves less lazing about than you might think."

"Now see, I told you there would be assassins."

"No assassins... not yet, anyway. Just standing around at Altmer social meetings being looked down upon by society's elite. I almost wish there _had _been an assassin, it would've livened things up a bit."

"The five-day party? Yeah, I heard about that, there's rumours flying around everywhere. That many people are claiming to have slept with Ocato, you'd think the whole thing was just a giant orgy."

Oreyn grimaced at the thought, "Hardly. Flirting aplenty, but he just ignored them all. Had about as much fun as I did."

"Not as pompous as he seems, then?"

"No. Well – yes. A bit. But I'm working on it."

Another laugh, "Trust you to take the most important man in the Empire and bring him down to peasant level."

"He's not that high and mighty. Laughs at stupid stuff, gets sweetroll crumbs everywhere, occasionally puts his clothes on inside-out... just like the rest of us, really."

"Sounds like you're on friendly terms with him. Heh, you're lucky Sabine isn't here, she'd press you for every detail. I swear she has a crush on the guy."

He shifted uncomfortably, "Judging by the party, so do a lot of other people."

"Nah, they just want a slice of the power and riches. No wonder he's still single at his age," the Orc mused, tone thoughtful, "If _I_ were the nearly-Emperor, I'd want someone who didn't care about all that – then I'd know they weren't just in it for the money. Someone a bit more humble."

"The nearly-Emperor can't marry a commoner, Kurz," Modryn replied quietly.

"They wouldn't have to be poor, so long as they didn't act like a noble-" Kurz stopped, noticing something off about Modryn's posture, "You alright? You seem a bit... tense."

"I'm fine," he'd always prided himself on his honesty. If there was a secret to be kept, he got around it by evading the question, changing the subject, not saying anything in the first place – not _lying_ as such, because when confronted directly he wasn't very good at it. This was one of those times when he wished he was better at deceit. "Just tired from the journey."

"You sure? You look more highly-strung than anything else-"

"A few aches and pains." Once he had a foothold, a half-truth, the rest became a little easier. "Ocato lent me a horse, but I can't stand riding the damn things. I've come away from ogre fights less sore. Doesn't help that I'm getting old either."

The distraction worked – at least for now. "I don't know about that. I don't think you can ever be old when you have a mohawk. I'm surprised no-one at the palace asked you to cut it actually."

That got him a snort, "I'd sooner stick a fork in my eye. Or their eye, which might be why no-one's brought it up. Anyway, Ocato has no problem with it."

"You wouldn't think so, given how straight-laced he looks."

"I guess... listen, I'm going to turn in for the night. I'll drop by tomorrow, help with the paperwork if you'd like."

"Nu-uh, you're on a break, work is off-limits. Come by anyway though, the others will want to see you," Kurz stood along with him, accompanying him to the door. But before letting his friend get away, he asked hesitantly, "Modryn?"

"What is it?"

"There's nothing bothering you, is there? No trouble back in the city?"

He almost froze on the spot, but caught himself just in time; "No, no trouble."

"If there's anything wrong, you can tell me about it, you know."

"There's nothing wrong, Kurz."

"If you're sure," was the doubtful answer, "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Tomorrow," Modryn repeated with a nod, before taking his leave.

He'd forgotten, in his absence, just how clever Kurz could be; most Orcs were smarter than they looked anyway, but especially that one. He preferred bows to battleaxes, preferred waiting, silently hidden, for just the right moment before letting an arrow fly. He watched people, not because he saw them as prey, but because he was so used to doing it to earn a living. It wasn't all that surprising that he'd sussed Modryn out in under ten minutes.

There wasn't anything he could do except try to play it off as weariness. Which wasn't a _complete _lie... he was thoroughly sick and tired of all these muddled feelings, the uncertainty, the doubt. It would be so much easier if he could just will himself to stop thinking of Ocato, but that didn't work. All this talk of him wasn't helping either.

The walk from the Guild to his house was so familiar that it required no thought at all, and before he knew it he was at his doorstep, fishing out the key and then inside. His usual routine was to kick off his boots – although the cuirass stayed on, he always felt oddly vulnerable without it – then grab a book and a bite to eat before relaxing for the rest of the evening. There was no food on the shelves, though, so he rummaged through the bag of supplies Ocato had given him.

Rice, bread, cheese, basic stuff. There was a sweetroll carefully wrapped in paper, which made him smile. A few health and fatigue potions, plus more than enough money to buy whatever else he needed.

In another pocket were washing items. Modryn used the kind of cheap, coarse soap that left you feeling scrubbed raw afterwards. These were obviously more expensive, smoother to the touch and smelled like-

-Like oranges. These were the soaps Ocato used. Modryn hastily put them away.

The bag was left in the far corner after he'd torn a piece from the bread; out of sight, out of scent, out of mind. He settled down with a copy of _Words and Philosophy_ and a determination not to think of the Chancellor for the rest of the night.

* * *

On the first full-fledged day of his break, Modryn relaxed in the Guild, chatting with the others and catching up on the latest Chorrol news, relaying his own experiences in the city. Sabine did, as Kurz had predicted, ask dozens of questions about Ocato; these ranged from favourite food ("Sweetroll") to what he did in his spare time ("He doesn't _have_ any spare time") to what colour underwear he wore ("What? I'm not telling you that!")

On the second day he visited Vilena at her home, given she had officially retired from the Guild. They were still friends, albeit not as close as they had once been. She no longer blamed him for Viranus' death, but her anger had been replaced by a sorrow that he didn't quite know how to deal with. He was never sure how to talk to her, how informal or brusque he could be.

On the third day, when everyone was either busy or absent from the Guild hall, Kurz quietly took him to one side and asked: "Alright, what's wrong?"

A twinge of dread ran through him. "What do you mean?" he said, not convincing anyone in the slightest, and especially not the man before him.

"Come on, don't play dumb. You've been stressed all week," Kurz said, "I know it's not tiredness... did something happen at the palace?"

"It's not that-"

"'Cause you can always come back if you don't like it. There'll always be a place for you here."

"The palace is fine."

"Then what's the problem? There must be some reason you look so tense – why you came back to Chorrol in the first place. You never take time off work unless you really, really need it."

"Kurz, I-" he swallowed, and looked away. A part of him wanted to confess everything, but another part wanted to take the secret to his grave, "-I'd rather not talk about it."

"But I want to help, I don't like seeing you like this. If you'd just tell me what's wrong-"

"I _can't_. It's... embarrassing."

"Yeah, like I've never told you any shameful secrets. You have enough ammunition against me to start a full-scale blackmail war."

"That's different, minor stuff. This is – I don't think it can be fixed. I don't even know where to start."

"Maybe I do, though," Kurz coaxed him, steering him towards a chair, "Sit down, we'll work something out. But I need to know what's wrong first."

He gritted his teeth. It was stupid, all this hesitating and worrying over how people would react. He lived in one of Cyrodil's most prim and proper towns, yet wore rusty iron armour, a mohawk and a permanent scruff on his jaw. His neighbours were used to him now, but when he'd first moved here he'd received more than a few disapproving glares, and even now there were still some who kept their distance. He'd never let it bother him before, why start now?  
Right, that settled it. Time to man up. Even if his masculinity was the very thing he needed help over.

"Okay, what happened is – basically I – I sort of-" he huffed irritably, his patience at an end, and just spat it out: "IkissedOcato!"

At least Kurz didn't laugh. He looked too shocked for that, "You kissed _who?_"

"Ocato. Altmer bloke, lives in a bloody great tower in the middle of the Imperial City. Runs the Empire. I'm sure you've heard of him."

"Smartarse," the Orc muttered, "But... was it an accident? You bumped into him, that kind of thing?"

"No. I mean yes. I'm not sure," he fidgeted, "There was alcohol involved-"

"Ah," his friend nodded, as if this explained everything.

"-But not nearly enough to warrant drunkenly kissing someone."

"..._Ah._"

Modryn agreed glumly, and then explained everything from the beginning. His exhaustion at the party, staggering upstairs, drinking the wine left on the table. And then the drowsiness, the _heat_, like a fever dream. Getting it into his head, somehow, that Ocato was removing his armour out of desire instead of concern. The kiss. The awkwardness that followed.

"-Turned out it was spiked with aphrodisiac. Someone broke into the palace and planted it for Ocato, I just got to it first," he finished at last, "I was drugged the entire time."

Kurz sat back in his chair reflectively, "So what are you worried over? You weren't responsible for your actions if you weren't in your right mind."

"Really, though? Does aphrodisiac just lower your inhibitions a bit or does it make you jump on anything with a pulse?"

"Depends on the type, I think. There's stuff out there that could make a troll look appealing," they both winced at the mental image, "But I still don't think you should worry. It was just a one-time thing."

"Yeah," Oreyn answered, sounding oddly hollow, "About that..."

"It happened more than once?"

A weary sigh, "No. But I've realised that I wouldn't mind if it did."

Silence.

"...So you're telling me you have a thing for your employer?"

"In a nutshell, yes," Oreyn fidgeted, which grew progressively worse when Kurz didn't say anything, "It's not like I _want_ to. I've tried to forget about what happened, but I can't. And I'm not – I've never thought about a man that way before, or looked at a man, or done anything with a man, so I can't be-"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on. Is that what this is about?" the Orc interrupted, "Modryn, you're my friend. I'm not going to suddenly start keeping my back to the wall when you're around, if that's what's worrying you. Besides," he added as an afterthought, "Orc women can hand your hide to you as well as a man can, so gender doesn't really matter to us. Same with preferences."

"That's what I'm saying, though, Ocato is-"

"The exception, not the rule. I get it," was the assurance. In a softer tone, he asked: "You really thought I'd end the friendship over this?"

"I didn't think you'd accept it so easily," Modryn confessed, "I thought it might make you uncomfortable. You know what the Fighters Guild is like."

"Full of manly men who like manly things, namely soft, jiggly women," Kurz answered with a grin, "Nah, I don't have a problem with it. I'm surprised, I'll admit, but that's more at the thought of you going for _anyone_, whatever gender. You've been single for as long as I've known you, I thought you weren't interested in any of that stuff."

"I'm still not sure if I am," Oreyn told him. With Kurz' acceptance it felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, making it easier to talk, "I'd already decided that I must've kissed Ocato because deep down I wanted to, but then he told me about the wine. Now I don't know if I feel anything genuine or if I still have aphrodisiac in my system."

"Maybe you should go to the chapel healer, ask for a cure poison spell. That'd clear it up."

"Hm, there's an idea. Why didn't I think of that before?"

"Because I'm a genius," Kurz declared proudly, and Modryn snorted. "What? You know it's true."

* * *

It was the third day of Modryn's break, and Ocato had realised how much he missed the man.

He'd also realised how many things Modryn had done for him while he was here. Little things, like keeping his inkwell filled and delivering sweetroll to munch on as he worked. Several times in the past few days he'd absentmindedly reached across his desk for a plate that wasn't there, or called out for Modryn to fetch something, only to stop and feel foolish. It was just as well he hadn't stationed a Legion guard outside his room in Oreyn's absence, or the rumour would start going around that he talked to himself.

If he was being honest, though, it wasn't the convenience he missed so much as the man himself. He missed the dry humour, he missed the brusque but earnest advice, he missed the stick-figure painting, and-

-And it had been _three days._ He'd gone longer without talking to anyone at all, when there had been a tidal wave of work to do. Evangeline had taken more time off and for longer, trips back to High Rock to see her family, but he'd never missed her like this. It didn't help that he had so much to do; the problem with idly celebrating for five days was that the workload didn't magically disappear, it just piled up unattended. So now his desk was swamped with all manner of letters, notes, complaints, contracts, accounts, tax forms, treaties, schedules, invitations and requests. It wasn't the first time it had been this bad, but Modryn's company would have made the whole thing more bearable.

To top it all off, he had a meeting with Aluin soon, which meant the man was going to bring up the homosexuality laws... which was absolutely the last thing on Mundus he wanted to deal with right now. It wasn't that he disliked Aluin, he'd always been a reasonable, intelligent and dependable person. But this gender business had brought out a dangerous new side to him that made Ocato worry.

He sighed, left his cluttered desk, and headed downstairs to meet him. Better to get it over and done with.

"Good afternoon, Chancellor," Aluin bowed slightly as Ocato entered the room. There was another Altmer with him, a woman, although from her nervous stance he would've likened her more to a rabbit or deer. "I trust you slept well?"

He hadn't, but answered with the usual, "Fine, thank you," before eyeing the woman, "Who is this?"

"Ardaline. From the Mages Guild in Bravil," Aluin spoke on her behalf, while she kept her eyes firmly trained on the floor. Ocato awaited some input from her, but received nothing until Aluin nudged her with his elbow, "Say hello to the Chancellor, Ardaline."

"H-hello," she stammered, stumbling forwards and thrusting a hand out for him to shake, "P-pleasure to meet you," she still wouldn't look at him.

Ocato glanced over at Aluin, who clarified: "The gathering improved your standing among other Altmer, but you could use some good publicity with the regular people of the Empire. I've arranged for you to give Ardaline some Alchemy lessons as a gesture of goodwill."

"Wouldn't a _non-Altmer_ have been better?" he asked pointedly, although the flinch from Ardaline softened his cynicism somewhat. He had the suspicion that Aluin was trying to play matchmaker again, but it seemed unlikely given his choice of accomplice.

"Now now, Ocato. Ardaline has come all the way from Bravil, one of the humblest towns in Cyrodil-" well, that was one way of putting it, "-She's gifted at Alchemy but would benefit from your expert tutelage. And as everyone knows, you are always more than happy to help your fellow citizens."

It was something he had only noticed recently – Aluin didn't negotiate, he just said things in such a matter-of-fact way that you found yourself unable to disagree. He gave it a go anyway: "Aluin, I have five days of work to catch up on, couldn't someone else-"

"You are _always_ happy to help your fellow citizens," Aluin repeated a little more forcefully, "I'm sure you'll find the time. The first lesson is today, continuing at least every other day for one month."

"But-" Aluin's look wasn't precisely a glare, but so piercing that it stopped Ocato in his tracks, "-Fine. One of the spare rooms should be large enough to set up a laboratory."

"Already arranged. Fourth floor, second door on the right," of course Aluin already had everything planned to the last detail, "I'll leave you to begin."

Once Aluin had departed, Ocato turned to his new student, "We might as well start now, I suppose. Follow me."

"Y-you don't have to," she reminded him of Olivier with that stutter, "If you don't w-want me here, I can go back t-to Bravil..."

"No, it's fine. You've come all this way, you should get something out of it. Besides, it'll give me a break from paperwork," and hopefully take his mind off Modryn, if only for a little while.

She meekly followed him to the laboratory, silent the entire way and almost hunched over, as if trying to make herself small and unnoticeable. Was Aluin really trying to set him up with this woman...? There was nothing seductive or manipulative about her. She wasn't even trying to be coy, she was just painfully shy.

The room was typical of Aluin's perfectionism: decent quality equipment and a variety of ingredients had been carefully and precisely arranged to look as though they were frequently used. If he didn't know any better, Ocato would think the place had _always_ been a laboratory instead of, as it was this morning, someone's office. There was even a scorch mark on one of the tables.

It had been a while since he had practised Alchemy but he fell back into old habits, rolling up his sleeves and lighting burners beneath the apparatus. Ardaline was still quiet, so he started some light conversation. "Where are you staying at the moment? Has Aluin found you a residence?"

She jumped, startled that he had addressed her, "The T-Tiber Septim Hotel."

"Ah yes, in the Talos Plaza district. Finest lodgings in the city," he eyed her timid posture, her modest dress without a hint of lace or embellishment, and hazarded a guess, "I take it you'd prefer somewhere quieter?"

His intuition seemed to surprise her. "I... yes, I would."

"I'll make new arrangements for you. The All Saints Inn is very pleasant, it's in the Temple district. Which is right next to the Arboretum, our city park. An Alchemist's dream come true, let me tell you."

She smiled at that, at last lifting her gaze from the floor. He hadn't noticed before, but her eyes were blue, an unusual colour on an Altmer. Largely because blue eyes were considered unattractive in the Summerset Isles – a sign of human impurity in the lineage – but they suited her. On closer inspection, and without that curtain of hair to obscure her face, she was actually quite pretty.

Perhaps these lessons wouldn't be so bad after all.


	13. Chapter 13

Dann: I know its been ages since you actually left that review, but you present a good argument, and I'm keen to discuss. If you're still interested, leave me an email address to contact! Also if anyone else has any questions about the characters and their motivations, feel free to ask and I'll do my best to answer – without giving away any spoilers, of course.

* * *

**Anathema, Chapter Thirteen**

"The Arboretum is lovely this time of year," Ocato commented as he walked with Ardaline. She was housed on the fringes of it now, thanks to his arrangement for her, but he still wished to give her a proper tour of the place. Besides, it was nice to be out in the fresh air. "Anyone is free to harvest what they wish from here. It's all common ingredients of course, nothing too exotic or dangerous, but it provides many of the base ingredients for Alchemy."

Ardaline was a good student, quiet but attentive. A rare find, he knew from his lecturing days at the Arcane University; most apprentices were distracted or aloof, there were few who genuinely paid attention. And she was genuine as far as he could tell, not simply being polite because she was a guest and he was High Chancellor. There was already much that she knew – more than Ocato had at her age – but she seemed keen to learn more, if a little apprehensive to ask.

"Take for example... ah, some Steel Blue Entoloma. Do you recall the properties?"

"Restores m-magicka and resists frost," she answered dutifully. Her stammer was ever present but relaxed in his company, which he took as a good sign.

"The spicy flavour warms the body, though it can burn your mouth a little. It also leaves you feeling heavy – you can feel how much it weighs," he handed a sample over to her. "If you were say, making a potion to aid mountain travel, you wouldn't want any extra burden. So you would need an ingredient to counteract that."

"Water lotus would do it. I-I mean, unless you meant to use s-something else-"

"Lotus was precisely what I had in mind," he gave her a reassuring smile. Goodness, but she was timid. Though after all the bureaucrats he had to put up with – made worse without Modryn's quiet company and wondrous ability to shoo away messengers – it was rather refreshing. Endearing, even.

He made his way to one of the moats that ran the perimeter to the city, the plants clustered along the surface. Stooping over the low wall, the water rippled as he plucked one from its leaf. Only the seeds needed to be harvested, but a single lotus wasn't a great loss. "I always found it strange," he murmured, straightening up with the petals smoothed between his fingers, "That such a pretty flower could be found in a crowded city, of all places."

He handed it over to her. She returned his smile shyly. Endearing, yes...

He pulled his lingering hand back, clearing his throat. "Lotus counteracts the burden and provides additional resistance to cold. But it leaves a nasty after-taste, not helped by the Entolomas burn," he continued as professionally as he could. "Ideally, we would need something to negate that. What would you suggest?"

"Um... F-Fly Amantia would work."

"It would suffice, yes, but it has the same heavy feeling as the Entoloma. The perfect ingredient is, in fact, sweetcake." He chuckled at her surprised expression, "Not many people think to mix mushrooms into a dessert, but it's not noticeable when reduced to a fine powder. What you end up with is a sweet, spicy cake that warms the entire body. A favourite of mountaineers, hence its informal name, Frostback Cake."

"That's Frostback Cake?" she asked, surprised, then added in a mumble: "I thought it was just frosted to look like snow."

"Sometimes, but that's just decorative. It's a delicacy up in Bruma, naturally. And now you know how to make it," he paused, "Granted, it's not likely to be useful in Bravil. Is it cold at all there?"

"Sometimes in w-winter it gets damp, and sicknesses go around easily."

"Ah." He'd never been to Bravil. Since it was generally known as the back-end of the empire, he wasn't sure why anyone would want to. "Do you enjoy living there?"

She shrugged, "It's n-not... pretty. But it's quiet enough, and I like the others in the Mages Guild. Kud-Ei is very kind to me."

Kud-Ei... the name was familiar for some reason. Not just from her status as Guild member, it had cropped up a few times in Altmer gossip because... oh.

Oh dear.

"I don't suppose she knows an Altmer named Henantier, does she?"

"Oh, yes! Talks about him all the time. They're good friends."

More than that, if rumours were to be believed. They _were_ just rumours, but combined with the forbidden and dangerous dream-projection experiments that had almost gotten him kicked out of the Guild... he had been barred from entering the Summerset Isles, exiled from High Elf society. Given the slow elven pace of life, people still hadn't stopped talking about it, the disgrace of it all, the shame he must feel.

Exile was about the worst fate Ocato could think of. Dying ranked highly of course, but once it was over you could hardly worry about it anymore. Whereas exile entailed living the rest of your days shunned by your own people, your culture, your heritage. Everything that made you who you were, stripped away. You were no longer Altmer, no longer _anyone._ Just a – thing. Or even a nothing.

Except Henantier had never seemed particularly bothered by it, as far as Ocato had heard. Many upstanding Altmer still muttered sourly at Henantier accepting his exile casually, if not cheerfully. Now he was living in Bravil, still friends with his Guild mates, possibly more than friends with Kud-Ei. He no longer had the acceptance and support if his people, but then he no longer had to worry about their impossibly high opinions and standards either.

"And is Henantier... happy?" he asked carefully.

"As far as I can tell, yes."

"Ah. That... that is good," he answered, and meant it. Altmer protocol dictated he should despise the man, but he couldn't really muster it.

"Did you know him personally then?"

"Hm? Oh, years and years ago. I doubt he even remembers me."

She tilted her head, "You lead the empire, how could he forget?"

"Remember me as _Ocato_, I mean," his smile came out a little more wistful than intended, "It's just 'Chancellor' these days."

* * *

It was with great trepidation that Modryn finally approached Chorrol chapel.

He hadn't set foot in here for months, if not years. He wasn't a religious person, especially when it came to the Nine. He didn't doubt their existence – there had been that bloody great dragon at the end of the Oblivion fiasco after all – but that didn't mean he worshipped or revered them. He left them alone, they left him alone, and that was that. He didn't shout his disdain for divinity from the rooftops, but not going to church made him somewhat unpopular with the other Chorrol residents, especially the clerics themselves. Therefore he wasn't wholly surprised when, upon entering the chapel, he was greeted not so much with a warm welcome as a noticeably tepid one.

The healer was a Dunmer who looked as though he ate righteous indignation with his toast every morning. He was wearing one of those gaudy blue velvet ensembles that were such high fashion these days, complete with silk and lace and frills and pearls and all manner of other ridiculous trimmings. Probably bought with church donations too.

He disliked the man already.

"Modryn Oreyn, correct?" the man asked delicately. Well, he was only second-in-command of the Cyrodil Fighters Guild, the biggest mercenary group in Tamriel, not that he was particularly noteworthy or anything. "I'm Gureryne Selvilo, chapel healer. What can I do for you today?"

"I need looking over. Reckon I might've been poisoned."

"By a wild creature? If you have any bite or scratch marks I could look at those-"

"No, no. By a person."

"A person? What manner of poison are we talking about?"

Oh no. No way was he going to tell some chapel priest he'd had aphrodisiac, not if he could help it. "Well – isn't that your job?" he asked sourly, "All I know is I've been feeling odd lately and I don't think it's standard sickness. I just need you to look, check everything's alright."

Gureryne gave him a Look – the kind that had to be spelled with a capital L – which distinctly said that the attitude was not appreciated. But regardless, his hands lit with a faint white-blue glow as he ran his restoration magic over Modryn, seeking out any unnatural substances. And yet, Modryn could feel no changes, none of the internal 'mending' you usually sensed while being healed.

"Nothing," the priest muttered at last.

"What do you mean 'nothing'?"

"There's nothing there. No trace of poison. Maybe you just have a passing flu, let me try a Cure Disease..." the magic glimmered and tingled again, before abruptly dying out. "No... I can't find anything. You're fine."

"I'm not fine, I've been poisoned!"

"If you were then it's gone from your system now. You're perfectly healthy. Perhaps you merely had an off-colour day... one that is still ongoing, given your temperament."

Oreyn folded his arms, "I want a second opinion."

His scowl was mirrored by Gureryne. "I have been healing people for years, I assure you I am _quite_ adept at it, thank _you_. "

Modryn recognised that curt tone. He'd heard Ocato use it on a few people when his patience was being tried – it signalled an end to all discussion and disagreements _right now_, before he got truly good and angry. Suspecting that he might be bodily thrown from the chapel if he didn't comply, Modryn shut up. That, and he had the sinking feeling that Gureryne was right. Maybe aphrodisiac didn't register as poisonous to a healer, but if he couldn't find any abnormalities whatsoever, perhaps there were simply none to be found. The tainted wine had cleared itself from his system, yet his new-found interest in Ocato remained.

"I see," he said, now too glum to be properly annoyed at Gureryne's persistent glower. "Thank you for helping," said without feeling or genuine gratefulness as he stood and exited the building without a backwards glance. His mood was dark, his thoughts sombre and grave. His did the only thing he could think of: headed back to the Fighters Guild for the sagely wisdom of his friend Kurz.

Unfortunately, Kurz was only sagely in the sense that he had green skin. And since he'd quickly exhausted all of his wisdom, his only idea was to consult someone better versed in the intricacies of emotion and romance. Namely, a woman.

Except there weren't many women in the Chorrol sector of the Fighters Guild. Two, to be precise. One was Vilena, who Modryn flat-out refused to tell. Firstly because after all the grief he'd caused her – however indirect or accidental – he didn't feel right approaching her with his woes. Secondly because Vilena was a straight-laced conservative sort who probably wouldn't approve of the whole man-fancying thing. Their friendship, if it could still be called that, was already fragile enough, he didn't want to lose her altogether.

This, however, only left Sabine.

"No," said Modryn immediately.

"We don't have a choice."

"She's one of the worst gossips in Chorrol! You've heard her, she's the mountain equivalent of a fishwife. We tell her and everyone in _Cyrodil_ will know before the week is out."

"She's not that bad. And she wouldn't share your secrets, not least because she knows what would happen if you found out."

"But she... she's _Sabine_," Modryn insisted, "She's practically one of the boys, she doesn't know about _feelings._"

"Well neither do we. And it's going to stay that way until we get some advice, unless you'd rather ask one of the townsfolk...?"

"Oh gods, no." It wasn't that the Chorrol people weren't nice, it was just that they were... nosy. The thick city walls kept out the forest, and so the lives of those _inside_ were the only point of interest to talk about, and talk they did.

"Then we ask Sabine. Sabine!" Kurz called down the steps to the cellar, the Guild armoury and forge where she worked. "You got a minute?"

"Right now?" Modryn asked in disbelief. "Let me arm myself before battle, why don't you?"

"You need to talk before you over-think things and get too worried to go through with it," the Orc told him, guiding him over to a chair by the dining table. When Sabine's inquiring face appeared from behind the cellar door, still smudged with black grease, he beckoned her over before taking a seat himself.

"What is it? You look like you've swallowed bonemeal, Modryn," she greeted, wiping grubby hands on her equally grubby apron as she approached, sitting opposite them both.

"Modryn here has a... problem, and we need your help with it," Kurz began as tactfully as he could.

She squinted at the Dunmer, "Your armour looks fine to me."

"Not that. It's kind of – well – women know how to deal with emotional stuff, right? Better than men anyway."

"What sort of problem are we talking about here?" Sabine said suspiciously, still addressing Kurz since Modryn was grimly silent.

"It's a – relationship problem."

She leaned forwards, an interested gleam in her eye, "_Really?_"

"You can't tell anyone!" Modryn blurted out at last. He knew that look. That was the look of _I won't tell a soul_ and then it was splashed over the front page of the Black Horse Courier.

Sure enough: "I won't tell a soul."

"Yes you will," he accused, scowling. "I mean it, Sabine. This needs to stay quiet for the sake of everyone involved. You go around spreading gossip and I will make things _very_ difficult for you." He disliked pulling rank to threaten, but she had to understand the gravity of this.

Of course, Sabine wasn't easily cowed. "No need for that," she responded coolly, but the fishwife look had dimmed, at least. "You haven't even told me the problem yet."

It took a nudge from Kurz to get him to start talking. "You know that five day party at the palace recently? You must have heard about it."

"_Everyone_ heard about it."

"Someone, for whatever reason, decided to break into Ocato's room and leave some wine spiked with – with aphrodisiac," he said, face warming slightly as Sabine took a marked interest. "They'd already drugged me to keep me out of the way, but Ocato noticed I wasn't acting right and sent me upstairs to rest. I got to the wine first and when Ocato came up to check up on me I sort of – well – look, I kissed him, alright?"

There was a silence. He expected surprise, shock, even disgust. But Sabine only said, in a quiet but hopeful voice, "...With tongue?"

"Er-" he faltered, having not expected that, "I think there was tongue involved, yeah."

Her expression looked positively dreamy, "Did you get a grope as well?"

"What? No!"

She sighed, "Shame. Not every day you get an opportunity to feel the almost-emperor up."

"Well I was sort of out on my mind on aphrodisiac at the time."

"So you would've if you'd been sober?"

"No! I wouldn't have kissed him in the first place! At least, I think so," he paused doubtfully. "There's the problem. I can't stop thinking about it, about _him_. But I don't know if it was the wine or if I always felt like this and never noticed, or if it's even possible to – like someone that way and not realise it. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do next."

"Isn't it obvious?"

Maybe Kurz was right, Sabine really would be able to help him. "No? What do you think I should do."

"Get in there, of course!"

"_What?_"

"Why not? He's single, he's gorgeous-"

"He's the leader of the bloody empire!"

"Exactly! You could get with the almost-emperor! You could the... the almost-empress!"

"I am _not_ going to be the almost-empress!" Modryn snapped, glaring at Kurz when he spluttered into a fit of laughter, poorly disguised as a cough.

"Seriously though! He's rich, powerful... the only reason he's not taken is because he can't trust anyone not to betray him. But you're his bodyguard, it's the perfect set up."

"But he's a _man,_" he pointed out vehemently.

"So? Since when do you care what anyone else thinks of you?"

There was that. But the rules changed when you were thrust in the limelight, the centre of gossip not just for Chorrol, but all of Cyrodil, all of _Tamriel._ "It's not about me. Ocato has to keep the Imperials and the Altmer happy, and they both frown on this kind of thing."

"Ah, but that makes it all the more exciting. Forbidden romance! Dangerous liaisons! Political intrigue! It has all the makings of a good story."

He scowled, "My life is not a book."

"I'm sure Quill-Weave could write you one-"

"No! Tell no-one!" Modryn barked, "If even a word of this gets out I'll be fired on the spot and Ocato will be a laughing stock. I'll be ruined, he'll be ruined, and so help me, I'll make sure _you_ are ruined too."

"Alright, alright!" she held up her hands, "I'm just saying, they don't need to find out about Ocato's relationships. It's none of their business anyway."

"But what if someone _does_ find out?"

"That you spent a lot of time with him? You're a bodyguard, that's your job."

Modryn sighed and slumped over the table, "This isn't the advice I came here to get. I want to be talked out of it, not _into_ it."

"I don't know why. From what you've told me about him it sounds like you're well suited to each other."

Which reminded him, "I thought you fancied him?"

"Well yeah, he's a dish. But the only thing better than a gorgeous man is _two_ gorgeous men."

"I'm hardly gorgeous, Sabine."

"Of course you are. Maybe not conventionally, but... don't you think Modryn's good-looking, Kurz?"

"Huh?" Kurz blinked wildly, "I suppose, kind of... I mean, you're not really my type, but-"

"Given his type is an Orc woman, you should take that as a compliment," Sabine commented, and nimbly dodged when Kurz elbowed her. "Really though, you look fine. Ocato could do a lot worse than you."

"And a lot better. Pretty, noble, Altmer-"

"-Manipulative, snobby and spoilt. If he wanted a gold digger he would've married one by now," she pointed out, "When you're still single at his age people start to talk, so he doesn't care _that_ much what people think of his love life."

"He cared enough to be mortified after the kiss."

"Surprised and conflicted, maybe. Not repulsed or he would've fired you."

A snort, "He didn't fire me because I'm a good bodyguard and I bring him sweetroll."

She beamed, "See? You're practically in a relationship already."

* * *

Evening fell, and Modryn found himself reluctantly rummaging through his bag of supplies, from which emanated the smell of oranges.

He needed a bath. Only he'd taken his usual cheap, coarse soap – which removed all dirt and a layer of skin along with it – with him to the city, so now he had nothing to wash with. Nothing except the scented soap Ocato had given him, which was smooth to the touch, probably very good for his skin, and smelled positively mouth-watering. And Modryn really, really didn't want to use it.

Partially because it felt wasteful – the soap might as well be made with ground-up septims – but mainly because this was the stuff Ocato used. The man already occupied all his thoughts, he didn't need his signature scent clouding around him as well. But it was late in the evening, the shops were all shut and he didn't want to beg off his neighbours. His only alternative was to simply not bathe, but while Modryn Oreyn wasn't the best-groomed man in the world, he was by no means a slob.

With a sigh he withdrew the carefully wrapped package of soaps and scrubs and lotions and- good grief, who needed all this stuff just to bathe? No wonder Ocato always looked so pristine. Trying not to think _too_ much about that soft skin, he fished out the hot coals used to warm his bathtub, flicking them back into the fireplace. He hissed softly as he sank into the water, a little too hot, just as he liked it.

He tried to use as little soap as possible, but it still produced that thick, cloying scent and more bubbles than he knew what to do with. It was admittedly pleasant against his skin, leaving him clean without feeling scrubbed raw. Even if it was ludicrously expensive... but then it was nothing to Ocato, he was the richest man in the empire. Technically he owned _all_ the riches of the empire, since he was now single-handedly in charge of the treasury.

The almost-emperor and a commoner, huh...

He was glad for Kurz and Sabine's acceptance of him, when he'd feared their rejection and revulsion. Their faith in his chances of wooing the world's most important man was warming, if rose-tinted. The optimism was infectious; for a moment he could believe he and Ocato truly would make a good match and that Ocato, despite his awkward behaviour, might actually be interested in more than friendship.

But they were still missing the bigger picture, the repercussions of Ocato dating outside his class. Modryn had no idea how Altmer traditions worked except that they were particularly strict. He assumed that you weren't meant to romance other men, especially if they were below your caste and _especially_ if they weren't Altmer. However ridiculous Modryn thought some of those traditions were, they meant a lot to Ocato. And if Ocato had to choose between his heritage and the silly crush of his bodyguard... well, Modryn could already see how that would end.

He'd come back to Chorrol to be dissuaded from his path, not encouraged to pursue it. If not Sabine and Kurz then he would have to go to someone else, someone who understood how nobility worked but was still humble and honest enough to tell him what a fool he was. Someone who deserved better than his pitiful problems but he had no choice, she was his last resort.

He needed to talk to Vilena.


End file.
